


a four letter word

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [60]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Almost Assisted Suicide, Amnesia, Animal Death, Body Horror, Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Past Torture, Serious Injuries, Slow Death, giant fights, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-29
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 50,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23375821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: Hate is such a strong word.And yet, Wilson was not lying when he used it.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: DS Extras [60]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/688443
Comments: 9
Kudos: 68





	a four letter word

**Author's Note:**

> ...This monstrosity was created all because I remembered [this song](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Pj1Kx7AI_rw).
> 
> Edit: Reuploading due to this posting funny? Eh.

"-and it was obviously fake, you can't just make that sort of thing up without looking like you might be a bit mad, so I had to say _something_ -"

The gears clattered against each other as Wilson dumped them upon the table, a few metal ones rolling about and the larger wooden cogs landing right where they had dropped, pausing before he gathered them together in one large, messy pile. Slowly, methodically he started to pick each out by their size, color, make, and teeth build.

"-and then, of course, the professor, in all his wisdom, interrupted _me_ and instead lauded about that dunces hoax-"

The silver gears were the easiest to pick out, then the copper and bronze, larger sizes and far thinner than some of the others, and the different wood colors, the inner grains were fairly important enough, sorting the piles with a very focused attention as he continued rambling.

"-as if _I_ hadn't done my research! The make is sound, the foundation keeps the form up, and I will be the first to admit that perhaps there is a bit of fine tuning needed, one can't just use shavings all the time and there has to be something more solid that can be reused, but I digress."

He shook his head, heaved a sigh as he scooted his chair a bit closer, elbows on the table as he adjusted into a more comfortable position. The gloves were on for this chore, as it didn't really require delicate hand eye work to just sort through a dusty box of gears and Wilson did not want a repeat of what had happened with the nails.

He did not like spiders, and especially did not like it when one clambered up his arm after he had disturbed its nest inside an old shoe box. Who in their right mind even stored nails in such a container anyway?

Still, having the gloves helped. The basement was getting cold, and anything down there covered was ample room for a few insects and an arachnid or two, so the added protection set his mind at ease.

At his side atop the table the speakers of the radio fizzled, a low rumble of back looping vibration that eased out slow and lazy through the small space of his attic.

"...Have you ever considered blood as substitute, pal?"

Wilson scoffed, itched his scruffy chin as he piled some of the thicker pale wood cogs atop each other.

"That's all part of public superstition, try to bring that up in any polite setting and they all denounce you for being occult." He shook his head with a huff, giving the unassuming radio a raised look. "It does need a connection of some sort, a link to the user, but blood is too ambiguous. There _has_ to be more to it than that."

"And if there isn't?"

"Then that would be too easy."

Static bled through the thoughtful silence as Wilson examined one of the much larger metal gears; rust was starting to eat through it, making it unusable for the work he would need of it. Setting it aside, rubbing the bridge of his nose at the thought that he may need to head into town after all, a headache was already growing behind his eyes.

"Blood is just too unpredictable to try and push into the equation. There are enough scares about it already, and then that doesn't even take into consideration the pathogens, the hazard of diseases being spread if the formula becomes common place for the public. If I can't find any viable alternative, then the beard shavings will have to do."

"Well..." The radio buzzed static, humming quiet as the voice slipping through droned on. "And what of the poor folks who have not a whisker on their chins? I dare say the pay revenue will wither from that problem."

"It's not about the money, never was." Wilson shook his head, blurrily eyed the now organized gears and cogs, his fingers itching to get to the next thing, make a mess and fix it once more. "As for that, it doesn't _need_ to be from the face. Any strand should do, honestly."

"I suppose if one wanted a second chance at life a simple lock of hair is not such a terrible sacrifice." Silence spread, calm, before Wilson leaned back and scrubbed his eyes, gritty and a hint exhausted. The radio's static hummed an odd background wave, rising and lowering almost too far for the human ear to catch, before the buzz picked back up. "You do not have a prototype, per chance?"

"Oh, no, no no. I'm not nearly accomplished enough to be given the resources to create one, and then there is the most pressing obstacle of all." Wilson heaved a sigh, leaned back a little more as he kept a grip to the table, before straightening back and making the chairs legs crack to the wooden planks underneath, a loud noise that had him blinking a little more awake. "I can't possibly patent it without testing it myself, and, as you should be able to assume, that would require quite a bit of, uh, set up."

"Of course, of course." The voice over the radio hummed in agreement, sparking static and white noise buzzing deep in the backdrop. "I certainly wouldn't like to tune in and hear of your unfortunately early death due to a bit of underpreparedness."

"I'm not that foolish. The blueprints took years to sketch, and I highly suspect the true testing to take decades."

"Hm." The radio burned static, rumbled low and to itself as Wilson once more leaned over his worktable, squinting blurry eyes at the metal and wooden bits and pieces that littered its surface. "I would hope the machine is well finished before that timeframe, what with how much work you have put into it."

"Yes, yes. It shouldn't be much longer now-"

Wilson had to pause, a yawn catching him off guard and making his jaw pop as he closed his eyes, and then he had to wait a moment, blurrier than usual as his energy receded back before he finally put his head into his hands as he leaned atop the table, eyes closed in defeat.

It's been days, perhaps even weeks, since he last had a good night's rest. His brain near vibrated in his skull every hour of the morning, noon, night, knocking thoughts and words and sentences together, something new, fixed, mixed and laid in lines of near puzzle code that he was still, still trying to learn. It felt fresh, an open salted wound that stung and strung and _sung_ , and Wilson was finding it ever harder to set down the tools and just _stop_.

Because the instant he did his head was overwhelmed by information, by a Knowledge that coated his tongue and slid heavy in his belly. There was so very little that seemed to ease the weight off his mind, even for a few short blessed moments, and insomnia knocked and knocked and pounded upon the door of his skull, keeping his thoughts ever circling, ever building.

Even now, his mind full of machine and portal and work, ever work and the looming deadline he knew nothing of but felt deep in his gut, his actual work was being flubbed due to his inability to just _stop_.

If he tried too hard, his head rung louder than ever, and it took ages to quiet down and to finally ease off the headache that now near permanently haunted him.

"...I would kill for just a little bit of sleep right now…" Wilson murmured into the tables grainy wood surface, the faint smells of spilled oils, candle wax and age old chemical burns rising to his nose, but all he did was lay there and rest his eyes, listening to the deaf ringing that echoed in his ears and rose and fell along with his heartbeat.

Once upon a time his head would hit the pillow and he'd be lulled by the echo of sound that his own pulse danced to in his head, but now it felt as if the way was cluttered, a myriad of black and white silhouettes caging up the space between his ears and trapping each drifting into jolting right back awake with a sudden epiphany.

The machine could always be improved, was _meant_ to be improved, and he's torn down parts of it over and over just to remake better and better. A hint of frustration laced through his radios voice every time he did this, but once he explained, went over every new piece, wire, clipping and junction that irritation washed away into something else.

Something Wilson only very rarely ever heard when he had been with the general public education, and near never in his childhood home, and if he straightened up a bit and preened upon hearing actual genuine praise, a certain level of awe and gratefulness buzzing through the static, then it was enough to fuel his desire to make this mechanical creation _correctly_. If he had to forego sleep just to snatch those new ideas from thin air then he absolutely would.

"...What time is it over there, might I ask?" Opening his eyes to watch the slight vibration of the radios speakers as words fell through, Wilson blinked blearily for a moment, exhaustion sudden and heavy after ages of avoiding rest. "It is always quite dark where I reside, so I do have a fair bit of trouble telling the time."

Wilson slowly sat up, near wobbling in his seat as he swung his gaze around. He hadn't meant for his words to be heard, but it wasn't as if he could ignore the inquiry.

It took a moment to realize the futility of his effort, and after another silent second passing he let his head sag into his hands once more, heaving another tired sigh.

"I...have no clocks set up here, was always worried on shattering the glass, but I'd say it's…" He trailed, tried to think as he rubbed his fingers to his eyes, an effort to chase the blurriness out and away. "...a little after midnight, perhaps? It can be hard to tell when there's cloud cover."

He squinted to the round window that centered the attic, past the dark silhouettes of other projects, racks and boxes and even the covered slow rising bones of the machine itself, and while the lantern on his work table was quite dim it was the light of the near full moon that shone through stronger. 

Sometimes, if he tilted his head a specific way, he could almost imagine the moon to have a face. Dark impressions of cheeks, lips, hooded eyes and heavy eyebrows.

If he turned his head the other way, it looked more like a lopsided rabbit.

Wilson blinked, shook his head, and turned his gaze away, realizing how silly he must have looked. 

There was no one here but him, hasn't been anyone in such a very, very long time, especially judging from the state of the basement, but the low static that now permeated the very air with fuzzy snow sound was sometimes almost presence enough.

An odd thing, to feel as if he could be held accountable by a _radio_. Or, more exact, a man thousands upon thousands of miles away from him, in an unknown part of the world. A man he's never met, and yet Wilson found himself talking and talking and talking, on and on, and never once has he been brushed aside.

He forgot to ask for a name in the very beginning, and now he felt too embarrassed to speak up about it, so the radio held a mystery stranger's voice whom he talked to near all hours of the day.

Sometimes there was silence, the sort where he knew no one was there, a faint crackling to the static before dead air hit and he'd be left on his lonesome for a few hours, but for the most part he got fair warning when that happened. He hasn't started talking and then had his listener leave him in the middle as of yet, which he could be grateful for. 

Wilson could probably count on one hand how many people have stuck around to listen to him finish a thought, and even less for those who didn't interrupt.

"It is quite late to still be awake, isn't it?" The radio picked up a few hushes of static, rising and falling as the voice strung on, droll and yet steady. "The night is not young, and dawn should show in a few hours."

"I'll take something when the sun's up, should be enough to wake me then." Wilson leaned on the table with his elbows, palms pressed to his eyes for a moment. Dark static blooms of color washed over him, blurry in the back of his eyelids, and after a moment he heaved a sigh and let his shoulders loosen up.

Good lord, was he tired.

"Then you should rest." 

The radio hummed as Wilson pulled his hands away, squinting as he gave the machine an odd look. Had he spoken that out loud?

"I have no time to waste on sleep." Wilson answered back a little slowly, had to bite off a growing yawn and wait out the wave of exhaustion for a moment, and it was hard to tell but his words might have begun slurring a bit. "The machine can't work on itself, no, and I need to place these gears in there some time soon. It'll take longer to finish if I'm not working."

"You cannot work if you are already half dead with exhaustion, pal." 

"But I'm not-"

"I am not physically there and even I can tell that you are about to drop." The static fizzled loud, rose and then rumbled into a background line, following the voices tone for a moment before finally easing into a softer blind air. "The machine will not fall apart if you stop working it for a few hours, but _you_ will if you don't take care of yourself."

Wilson huffed, chewing on the inside of his cheek a moment and letting the faint blips of pain keep him alert, at least until he tasted iron and had to stop with a sigh. He rubbed his face, scrubbed his eyes in vain, and it was a cluster of odd muffled feelings and that ever anvil heavy fatigue, this thumping headache pressing to the backs of his eyes, pinning against his temples, but it was...sort of nice, hearing those words.

It wasn't common sense to trust some random stranger through a radio that shouldn't be able to communicate like this in the first place, but it was the first time in a very, very, very long time that Wilson has heard someone express some sort of concern for him.

And, logic aside, emotions were a whole lot harder for him to control, as well as rash decision making.

"I'll be wasting what time I have…"

He did try one more time, but the radio swept through with its low talking voice, the slightest rise in pitches and tone, all directed to him.

"You have all the time in the world, my friend, trust me. The machine is not going anywhere." A low sound eased out of the speakers, chuckles garbled with static clouds. "And I have the patience of a saint, so do not worry. There is no harm in taking a rest, pal."

Wilson sighed, folded his arms as he looked away from the unassuming radio, completely normal looking and not as if full of the mystical strangeness he was well aware of. He didn't even have the energy to drum his fingers, gaze sliding over the piled gears before drifting over to the dark silhouettes and flickering shadows cast by his dimming lantern. The flame inside was going out, slowly but surely, but Wilson wasn't motivated enough to fix that.

After another moment of almost letting himself be stubborn again, his exhaustion won out and Wilson laid his head in his arms, hunched over the table, creaking as his weight adjusted atop it, and turned his face to the side, to blurrily eye the radio and its near silent static backdrop.

"...A bed would be more comfortable." The radios tone drifted, rose, fell, and Wilson could almost imagine the speakers face, eyebrow raised and mouth curled in that almost audible frown.

He's obviously never seen the fellow on the other side, but he could always use his imagination, couldn't he? If his own face twitched, lips tugged up at the thought and image, Wilson was fairly glad the radio couldn't see.

"If I have to sleep then I'm gonna do it here." He wiggled in his chair a moment, too tired to mind the discomfort of a hard wooden seat, before settling again with a sigh. "It's not that uncomfy, and I'll get to listen to you."

It took a moment, to realize that had slipped out without realizing. 

His eyes were closed by then, the roughness of the gloves pressed to his scruffy face but not bothering to pull them off, and then Wilson reevaluated what he had just said.

The radio was silent, only the low buzzing static showing the voice was still there, and he almost let himself speak again before he swallowed whatever nonsense that would have come out of his mouth, he must be more tired than he had thought, keeping his eyes shut. If he pretended he hadn't said anything at all maybe it would be ignored-

"...I am sure I have nothing to say that you would find interesting, pal. Nothing that would help you sleep, anyhow." 

There was hesitance in the static where he's never heard any before, and Wilson just barely squinted his eyes open, eyeing the radio for a moment.

He already knew he'd not sleep anyhow, not with his brain banging around and around with ideas and thoughts, so maybe…

"It doesn't have to be about anything in particular, if you want." This was pushing it, but Wilson _was_ tired and if his inhibitions were a bit lowered right now then he'd try to profit off of it. "An' anything will help, just not silence."

He let his eyes close, pulling his arms closer together and getting more comfortable.

"Anything but silence…"

The radio was quiet for a few more moments, the air heavy with something Wilson couldn't bother to put a name too, too tired, and his ears were ringing with the din of his ever twisting thoughts, pains in his skull that pushed and pulled, and he hoped there would be a distraction soon, anything to break the silence and scatter the thoughts enough for him to _stop_ -

"I suppose you wish to hear of something relevant to your work?"

Wilson minutely shook his head, shoulders sagging as he let out another semi tense sigh, fatigue pushing through his stubbornness and for once the aching soreness of his limbs was starting to get to him.

"Might be better if I stop thinkin' about all that." If he wanted to get any sleep at all, actually, and already his brain was envisioning where, exactly, those gears are meant to go, the metal and silver, copper, bronze, then the wooden cogs and their massive teeth that needed more room to turn correctly-

"Hm, you don't leave me many options then, do you pal? Any suggestions?"

There was a certain amount of amusement laced through the static then, leveled airly, and Wilson once again shook his head, the twitching of a faint smile pulling at his face as he adjusted his arms into a more pillow like form, more comforting to lay upon.

He didn't even acknowledge that his gesture would have gone unseen to the speaker.

"Just anything but work, is all." Wilson exhaled, inhaled, and he really hadn't known how tired he actually was, hadn't realized or really thought about the strain of staying up for days at a time and suffering through only an hour or two of sleep, marked by microsleeps that had him always almost trip on his own feet or mishandle a tool. He should be glad he hasn't cut off any fingers as of yet. "As long as you're talkin', I'll be fine. I love listening to you."

Really, Wilson was pretty sure _he_ was the one who did all the talking, and the voice on the radio did all the listening. 

This time around, he didn't even realize anything had slipped past him.

The radio, however, did. 

Static rose and fell like soft waves of sound, easing through the stale air of the cluttered attic, and Wilson breathed slow and easy and waited.

"Well...hrm." The softer burst of static snow sounded more like someone clearing their throat, low and firm, before the voice continued on. "I suppose if I must…"

Another moment of silence, and Wilson was already half dozing at this point, only the dull twisting ringing inside his head that threatened to spring out and baffle him awake with more mechanical know how and exhaustive manic energy, before the attics stagnant quiet suddenly crumbled as the static receded back into low background and vocals filled out instead.

_"A convict sat in a prison cell,  
Doom'd all the days of his life;  
And his thoughts went out-"_

"Are-are you singing?"

The static immediately clouded as Wilson interrupted, eyes squinted open and even lifting his head a little, hands curled into loose fists as he adjusted himself, blurry eyed and wobbly but still awake enough to get a bit confused.

The radio speakers vibrated from silent sound a moment, static sputtering, before the voice rose right back up once more.

"You didn't give me a suggestion, pal, so I made do. Unless you wish for me to stop, in which case _my_ suggestion is that you actually head down to your bed instead."

There was a bit of offense in there, mixing bitterly with the usual drone that the voice held, and deeper through that seemed to be a bit of...embarrassment, or shame even.

Wilson blinked, and even in his sleepy state he recognized hurt when he heard it so he struggled a moment to get his thoughts back into order.

"Um, no, I don't have any, uh, anything to say. Just caught me off guard is all, sorry."

The static cloud held, silence again as Wilson let his head drop back to his arms, loosening his shoulders, and now he felt a bit bad, interrupting like that.

It was true that he hadn't given any suggestions himself…

"You can...you can continue, if you want?" 

He grimaced at how he sounded, a little weak and guilty, and for a moment he was sure he was going to hear that cut off of dead sound space, that specific line of hollow static that happened when the voice was tuned away from him-

"Hmph." The radio buzzed a bit, speakers putting vibrations through the wood of the table and traveling up Wilsons crossed arms, lowly bouncing in his skull. "Fine, fine. I'd prefer no more interruptions, however."

"Of course! I'm sorry about that..."

Wilson waited, watched the radio through tired eyes as the static rose and fell, a moment of clearing before the voice started again once more.

_"A convict sat in a prison cell,  
Doom'd all the days of his life;  
And his thoughts went out to the ones he loved,  
To his home, his babe, his wife;  
A songster lit on his window sill,  
And the poor soul's heart was stirred,  
For he seemed to sing of the day's gone by,  
To the convict sang the bird."_

Has he heard this song before? Wilson wondered about it, letting his eyes close and whispering a sigh, an exhale from his lungs as he listened. It sounded familiar, though a bit older than what he was more used to, and somehow much slower, calmer in tone to what he felt it should be sung to.

_"He seemed to sing of the sunshine,  
He seemed to sing of the clouds,  
He seemed to sing of prosperity,  
And of poverty's somber shrouds;  
He seemed to sing of freedom  
In the sky near the sun's bright ray,  
And as it brought to his eyes the tears,  
The bird it flew away."_

For once his mind was starting to settle, sound and voice rising through the attic and filling it with tone and atmosphere, the constant ringing of his ears taking a background place that was as lowly as the static of the radios speakers. 

For once after starting this great machine fiasco, Wilson could feel himself relaxing.

_"Come to me each day  
Come to me, I pray;  
Thou messenger of freedom, come to me;  
Let me hear each note  
That bubbles from thy throat,  
The convict like the bird would fain be free."_

Sleep was washing in with dark solemn waves, lapping at the edges of his overeager, overstimulated brain, Knowledge simmering low in compliance as Wilson's breath went easy, and even as harsh as the table and chair were it felt as if the most comfortable thing he's laid upon in days, weeks, and that was probably the truth.

The radios static washed low, seemed almost physical in his near asleep mind's eye, moved and swam through the air that he had his eyes closed to, and Wilson was far too tired, far too deep in almost rest to react to the feeling of almost shadow presence surrounding him.

_"The bird he came to sing his song  
At dusk on a Summer's day,  
And the poor thing chirped in loneliness,  
For no convict heard his play;  
He sang his notes so plaintively,  
Too sad for tongue to tell,  
And at early morn the faithful bird  
Lay dead in the convict's cell."_

Very faintly his subconscious picked up on something, silent impossible movement through the air, static and darkness as Wilson started to slip into the void of sleep.

Too faint to recognize, something brushed through his hair, near enough to be almost like a hand, gentle fingers, a hum.

_"He sang no more of the sunshine,  
He sang no more of the clouds,  
He sang no more of prosperity,  
Nor of poverty's somber shrouds;  
He sang no more of freedom  
In the sky near the sun's bright ray,  
And as he finished his song,  
The faithful bird it passed away."_

The attic creaked to itself, empty save a lone sleeping man and his radio, low static entangled voice humming a moment, solemn as fingers carded through dark, greasy hair, melancholic as Wilson finally fell into deep sleep.

_"He came no more, they say,  
He came no more each day,  
The messenger of freedom none can see;  
Silent was the cell,  
As if by magic spell,  
The convict like the bird again was free."_

***

"Gah! You horrible, stupid, awful-"

Wilson stomped around, wilted garland losing dried rotting petals as he went, drifting down to settle onto frayed purple carpet and cracked marble. Every so often he lashed out, kicking at hunks of scrap metal and gears, seething with rage as he dragged a clawed hand through his already frazzled hair.

"-fucking sadistic bastard-"

On he continued, cursing up a storm as he paced and paced and kept in a tight circle, punting the rusted remains of what had once been mechanical guards. A particularly horsey one wheezed a rattling accordion as it flopped over at his kick, a yellow eye popping out on a spring as its sheet metal all crashed into one chaotic pile. The shattered glass dome of the bishop sparked a bit still, mandibles twisting, but it was fairly decapitated and its body had crumbled earlier when the massive rook had incidentally rammed into it.

The rhino thing had almost clipped Wilson in one of its charges, but eventually its sagging jaw and steaming horn finally started to fall apart under the strain of ramming one too many trees. It was just the case of jamming a spear into the exposed wire and gear framework after that, which Wilson had done with only a bit of difficulty.

And then he had stood there, in the mess of wires and metal and hair still standing on end after narrowly avoiding the bishops earlier electric shots, panting and clinging a death grip to his near broken spear as he glared up at the statue risen in the middle of all this mess.

The rook hadn't even so much as brushed right by it the entire time Wilson had been fighting. Not a single fallen tree had landed even a foot away, not even a _scratch_ on the damn thing.

Less than what Wilson had, bruises and soreness about his side from where the knight had clipped him. He was lucky it hadn't gotten a direct hit to his arm; these mechanical chess pieces break bones all too easily. 

Still, his rage at seeing that smirking grin staring down at him, carved in dark stone and untouched by chaos, was near unsurmounted. 

Clenching and then unclenching his claws, pricking his palms and not giving even a single damn, Wilson glowered darkly at the egotistical statue set in the middle of broken automatons and age old marble and carpet. 

And then spun on his heel, racing over to his earlier tossed aside backpack, face twisted into a barred snarl as he dug around just to yank out the tool he felt would be up for the job.

Wilson hadn't _wanted_ to fight robots today. He had wanted to find the forest pig village, seek out a few helpers for spider hunting, get bundles of silk and glands and even, if he was lucky, a bit of bacon on the side; he had _wanted_ to have a productive, almost easy day today, gearing up supplies, readying for winter.

Because winter was to come in only a few short weeks, he has been keeping records, logs, and autumn was on a steady decline. The thick snow would make spider hunting difficult, and pigmen hated going out for long in the cold, so he wanted to take advantage right _now_.

Except he had stumbled into the territory of mechanical monsters, and then the rook had chased him and chased him and just wouldn't let up, rumbling and calling and drawing the bishops line of fire into the directions Wilson was always trying to leap to, dodging the charges and then twisting to avoid the bolts of powerful electric shocks. And then the knight had knocked him over, whistled accordion neighs and bowing as to strike again, before the rook charged a little too far to the left and stream rolled right over it. Then the bishop had hopped forward, eye squinting up as it sparked and popped, before the rook once more veered too much to the left and smashed it to pieces, kicking up its severed head out into the grass. Wilson had just barely rolled out of the way of that one.

And now it was well past morning, a little after evening, the sun was making its slow crawl downwards, and here Wilson was, nothing to show for his day besides inedible gears and some painful tightness about his ribs, bruising spreading about his chest and making his skin tender, raw feeling. This wasn't where he envisioned his day ending, and this stupid statue was the cause of it all.

Not the statue itself, no, it was just a hunk of dark stone, but it was what the statue _represented_ that gave it meaning. 

And the one that gave it meaning, he thought to himself as he purposefully strode over with a nearly new made pickaxe in his determined hands, was a complete and utter _asshole_.

With that in mind, it only took half a second for Wilson to raise up the pickaxe, muscles tensing in ways his once sedentary lifestyle never prepared him for but this horrid wilderness handed over on a silver plate, and swung down with all his might.

The stone made a highly satisfying "crack!" as flint metal met carved rock, and with that the man shouted an oath as loudly as he could, swears pouring out of his mouth as the rest of the garland fell right apart into petal fragments, a blistering blow out of rage and near enough madness to shove back any thought of being gentleman or scientist. All Wilson was, for this mere moment, was a very angry, very frustrated human being.

"Damn you! Damn your stupid world and your stupid monsters! I hate you!"

He punctuated each word, each sentence, exclamation with another hardened swing, giddly watching the cracks spread, the shards of falling stone pebbles and rock dust, smashing apart that smirk with the sharp end of the pick, gouging out stone empty eyesockets and splintering through the whole stone framework. One particularly harsh walloping had one arm crumble at the elbow, a loud "thwump!" and clatter of it landing on marble, the other stone taloned hand dropping to the carpet with a less satisfying crack of sound. 

Wilson poured all his strength into this task, swinging the pick high and then ripping it down in arcs that flung splinters of rock about, and he didn't care that this wasn't helping him, that this didn't benefit him whatsoever, that the swinging was pulling his already too used muscles; all he could focus on in the dizzy swell of rage and frustration and faint pains was his utter and complete loathing of the man envisioned upon this statue.

It brought up memories, times before this horrible place, times where his thinking might have been foggy but he hadn't been fighting for his life every second of every day, where he lacked Knowledge but had so much more stability, the before where he had dealt with no falsely parading demons.

His rage flared, stroked strong, and he swung and crashed the pick with almost new ferocity, teeth bared into a red hot snarl, thinking of even after the first contact, of a close presence, voice, dare he even think of the word "friend", talking to him about the machine, about his work, his lifestyle and choices and opinions, listened to him ramble and talk and bubble about whatever striked his fancy, and Wilson raged still, even now, at having lost everything in exchange for a hell he had never known he was signing up for.

Finally that stone neck trembled, shook, and one more swing burst the stone apart and flung the statues head away, clattering against the marble and rolling the busted remains of features and smirk, ego left over into the clump of weeds fringing the edges of this damnable set. Its whole form shivered, spiked shoulders chipped and cracked, once solid stone a mess of ripped away holes and cracks ever spreading farther, and Wilson's breath was escaping him in great big bursts, pickaxe loose in his claws, dusty and marred with new chips and notches.

His anger, rage still boiled within him, but for the moment he had let off some steam. And now the bloody statue couldn't grin at him as if finding amusement at his pathetic excuse of a scientific life. 

There was more to it than that, this rage burning hot and dark and thick in the back of his mind; there was more to his justifiable anger than he consciously knew he had, the deep of his brain twisting ever more hidden Knowledge, amnesia, but whatever it was Wilson did not, or could not, remember it enough.

Just an unidentifiable rage, hatred mixing with even more undesirable emotions, rising half memories.

This did not matter now, Wilson thought to himself, forcing himself to swallow the rest of it, to ignore the hidden darkness pooling along inside his head. He had near utterly destroyed the statue; its cracks cleaved it diagonal, leaving half a torso and long, too long legs behind. Nothing in the world could fix the damn thing now.

Looking up into the pale blue sky, devoid of clouds or any other natural weather like pattern or understanding, Wilson squinted his eyes and gave a final impolite gesture upwards, another low hiss of a breath escaping him as he rose his arm up high.

"...I fucking hate you, so much."

Hate was such a strong word; Wilson knew that well. 

But there was nothing else rising in his head that could possibly give the same thought process, the same punch, and so he stuck to hissing out his words and cursing out the the demon of this world. 

And then a new sound, steadily getting louder and louder, suddenly called Wilson to attention, fumbling with the pick before giving a moment to adjust. It had been going for a short while, and his newly honed instincts were still struggling to become more grounded.

Because the barking of hounds echoed low and deep all about, and Wilson recognized that he stood very little chance with a busted spear and no backup. 

A last cursing oath up towards the one who had started, created, gave life to everything horrible and terrible here, before he had scooped upwards his drooping pick, knowing his odds were really not there, not this time.

The hounds howled, growling, snarling, closer now, and Wilson twisted himself into a battle stance, weapon at the ready.

Come, creatures of terrible make, and meet his dull, well used weapons! He has single handedly destroyed the remains of the statue of a horrid demonic being, parading as man it seemed, and he was ready for another round.

Wilson was not one to leave things unfinished, even if it was his rage.

And boy, did he have a lot of rage.

***

Wilson knew what dying felt like. If he was in a better place mentally, he'd also know just how horrifying it was to acknowledge this.

He couldn't even muster the strength to get up anymore. It hurt just to breath, and his claws were doused in his own blood, his vain attempt to put pressure on the wound, try to keep it all closed, the numb tingling flare ups of pain from his legs and he had started coughing a few moments ago and it felt as if it would never stop, dizzy and shivering with heat flashes of thrumming shocks.

Being flung into trees wasn't the worst thing that could happen, he could still stagger back up from that; it was the fact the treeguard had gored him with its clawed branches beforehand that had sealed his fate.

And now he was bleeding out, gasping as hot blood flooded up his throat and was starting to suffocate him, agony pulsing from the gaping hole he was sure he had in him, light headed and spinning, spinning in the hazy cloud of pain as he lay sprawled face first in the grass, his own blood pooling around him as he struggled to keep breathing.

And then his already foul luck suddenly turned for the far, far worse.

A puff of heady tobacco clouded the air, the sickly sweet tint of flowers, roses maybe, Wilson couldn't organize his thoughts enough to recognize anything anymore, but those pristine shoes came into his wavering vision, gurgling on the blood in his throat and still trying to spit it out, still fighting it as it dribbled down his chin into the dirt.

"Say pal…" There was a pause, movement and shifting as those long legs crouched down, the thick fabric of the fur cloak bunching up in rolls in the yellowed grass. And then a low puffed inhale, exhale, ashes tipped all too close to his face and another hushed sweep of thick foul smoke, only able to focus his dizzy vision onto those flaring embers before they faded out right before his spinning foggy eyes. "...you _really_ don't look so good. Had a run in with some bad luck?"

As if to punctuate his words a low creaking groan filled the air, each step of the living tree heaved as it drew itself closer, dragging thick roots behind its swaying form. Wilson twitched, claws digging into the dry grass and dirt, and he was able to push enough to shift his head, look upwards.

In time to see the Nightmare King vaguely scowl in the direction of the treeguard, sweep his hand out in a brief dismissive gesture.

The heaving sounds stopped, the ground ceased shaking, and with one last creak Wilson could hear the dirt part and crumble as, from what he could only assume, the tree rooted itself back into the earth.

It wasn't going to finish the job, he thought dizzily, and the implications of that sent a manic high hiss out of him, devolved into a gargling giggle that flooded his mouth with more warm blood. The sound made the demon crouched next to him turn his head, pitch black eyes shiny and inhuman as Wilson started to cough.

He had to shut his eyes, struggling for air, not able to stop as each thin wheeze was interrupted and there was a certain level of numbness trying to fade over him, trying to blanket over him but each cough just sent red hot nerves of pain and kept him here, everything going dizzily light and far away as he started to truly suffocate-

And then there was a sudden hard force on his back, shaking the last cough loose into more of a gag, harsh stings of cold air sucked into his rasping throat, and all Wilson could do was lay there with eyes squeezed shut tight, cheek pressed to the dirt and his own going cold blood, whistling in air and trying to not swallow the hot iron in his mouth, still dizzy even as that fade away unmercifully drew back.

It took a moment, to recognize the weight, pressure, a hand pressed to his back and rubbing in slow circles. The touch sent a shudder through him, wheezing out an exhale and rattling a too weak inhale, repulsed by the shivery feel of being touched.

"Now now, pal, don't be rude. You haven't even said a good ol' hello, and you are already trying to leave without so much as a polite goodbye." 

Breathing was still difficult, fast and shallow, not enough air in him, and Wilson knew he didn't have much time left. He just had to...to wait it out, ignore everything else. 

He has found, from all the horrible things that have happened to him, that he was particularly good at dying apparently.

For a moment it took a bit more strain from him than before, heaving as another new blanket of numbness started to settle in the back of his head, his mind, that rising and falling dizzy drop that made everything else so far away, and he was just about to tip again as another near last breath rattled out of him-

-and then something sharp and snaking thin jerked him right awake, gasping as pain fired up his spine and blazed too much, overwhelming agony that had him seizing up.

"I hadn't pegged you to be so impolite, pal. And here I thought you were a gentleman, hm?"

Vaguely Wilson recognized there were talons curling cruelly in his hair, eyes squinting open and watering in pain as his head was tugged up and back, and through the blurriness he could see the swirling silhouette of the Nightmare King, the sharp flash of too many fanged teeth and shiny reflective eyes.

"I suppose I should lend a hand, shouldn't I?" 

The grip tugged him up even more, pulling on his hair but not just that, a sudden jostling and the frantic attempts Wilson had made earlier to keep himself together were undone. 

He could, could _feel_ it, the sudden drop and gush of blood, and then it was just, **pain** -

Pressure and unbridled pain as the now very open evisceration, done in by treeguard bark claws and widened and strained, bruised by being flung into a wide assortment of nearby trees, all now splattered by grotesque stains of blood, and there was a horrid falling sensation, nauseating as Wilson realized that a lot of his insides were now very much on the outside instead.

For an agonizing few seconds he was kept up, his own claws twitching and not having the strength, too weak to try and struggle as he weakly gargled more blood from his lips, and then he was dropped with a very disappointed sound.

"Well, you've gone and wasted it already I'm afraid."

There was now more cushioning in his fall, but it was no comfort whatsoever knowing that his own _organs_ were the reason for that. The squelsh of it, sticky and hot and Wilson gagged, shuddered at the overflow of too much, too fast, this was-

"You are a very unappreciative fellow, pal." There was a sigh, and then a pause before more foul smelling smoke washed over him, and Wilson could only gasp, heaving like a fish out of water as the world started fuzzing into painful flashes of sensation and vague smearing colors, all trying to drain but only clogging in his chest. "Give a few graces and yet they all seem to mean nothing to you."

Wilson knew what dying felt like. He knew it as well as the back of his own hand.

This wasn't it.

As he panted, trying to breathe and trying to keep the swell back but only having it wash through him, too much as the shock jittered through his system but _there was no numbing_ , everything _hurt_ but it wasn't going away, it just stayed and stayed and boiled up and it was more than just agony, this pressure as he kept inhaling and exhaling and feeling it shudder inside himself, as if it wasn't meant to be this way, he _should be dead by now_ -

There was a faint feeling, only barely twitching, flinching as the hot washing of pulsing pains kept him tethered here, mind too filled and overwhelmed to understand or recognize, only the disgusting taint of cigar smoke and the faintest of fleeting touch to his face, leather gloved fingers brushing and dabbing the blood leaking from his gasping mouth.

"...Remarkable, isn't it?"

That hand pulled away, to examine perhaps, and all Wilson could do was pant and rasp and suffer.

"I could keep you like this, pal. Death just out of reach, for however long I wish." 

That hand came back around, sharp talons pricking the top of his head as they combed through his hair almost soothingly, if it were not for the fact that Wilson was drowning under shocks of rushing pulsed pains, steady and continual and not, not fading _at all_.

"But, I am a merciful King. That last sacred second shouldn't be extended to eternity, don't you agree?"

For a split moment, as those talons kneaded the back of his tense neck and tangled slowly in his greasy hair - _as if he was some ill behaved mutt_ \- Wilson finally hauled out the smear of what strength was left from inside himself, spitting blood as he choked the words out in a gargled rush, sudden and unorganized, the only fight back he had left.

"I, hhh, hhate, y, yo, oou…"

The exhale left him in a burst, and now it was all just shaking limbs and gasping breath and he, he couldn't think, couldn't think at all, only rushing waves and bright hot flares and pain, pain agony sharp tearing _**pain**_ -

Talons raked sharp across the sides of his head, jerking his face up, but Wilson couldn't even recognize that, gasping under the onslaught of signals, too many signals all at once. An exhale of smoke, not able to even choke as it washed over him, empty shiny eyes staring into his glazed own, but the words were soft, hushed quiet, not even a hint of sadistic sarcasm.

Solumm and almost, almost melancholic.

"Enjoy the respite of death, pal. You'll be back to it soon enough."

And then there was the faintest feeling, tightening of claws about his head, a sudden sort of snap, and then a split second rush straight to his brain and Wilson heaved a weak breath and felt the numbness take him at last.

***

Honestly, Wilson didn't know what to do in this situation.

His mind was a scrambled mess, his strength was just about to leave him in one fell swoop, he could barely stand and the only thing truly helping him was this horrid radio contraption; it acted as a replacement walking stick, cane, and he leaned heavy on it, the only thing keeping him off the cracked marble ground right now.

The last world, the last challenge, had pushed him to the limit. Starvation was already here, and he felt weaker than he's ever really felt before, trembling from trying to walk forward, too thin and pale, body eating itself alive as he tried to keep holding on. If he fell, tripped now, then it would be all over; Wilson had no more strength to get back up.

His tongue was sticky in his mouth, the lack of water sources in the eternal darkness a curse he had to push through, and dizzy as he was fighting nausea and lead heavy exhaustion, fatigue was becoming almost too much. 

And that didn't even count his wounds, the aches and pains, the bruising and broken bones and blood loss, he's patched what he could and set disjointed limbs and tried his best with what little he had, but he was still practically dragging his left leg and one arm was a ravaged mess of dark bloody bandaging, his sides screaming and lumps from broken ribs and his right eye was near blinded, some sort of infection and scarring from a wound he just couldn't seem to heal in time, and it was all going to crash down and Wilson knew, he _knew_ that death was coming.

Soon, so soon, too soon, but right before him, in this dark world of crumbling pillars bearing heatless flames and the sea salty barren land, a wasteland of dead trees and dusty canyons of boulders and ash, settled right before him was the demonic overlord in all his, his…

It wasn't glory, Wilson could see that, even with one eye out of commision. A sight like this couldn't ever be referred to as _glory_.

Maxwell sat there, crumbled limp in the grip of some black taloned Throne, braced and yet bound in strands of twitching, smoothly swaying shadows, solid and sharp and rigid, yet near cushioning at the same time, a discomfort thickening the air as his gaze was met and not broken. 

The other man sat there, and while he bore no injuries his bones stood out under ragged, torn apart clothing, what had once been the fur lined coat and even suit, and even from here Wilson could see the shadows pulse, roll smoothly about the near enough corpse They held in Their grip.

He's had too many close encounters with Their kind, and most entitled death in horribly chaotic, dizzying ways, ways his mind just couldn't, couldn't grasp an understanding to. The indescribable nature of something that did not exist, yet still tore through him and bloodied him was near incomprehensible.

The demonic Nightmare King, as Maxwell so often proclaimed himself to be, was a ragged tied up doll in the lap of petting shadows, Their cooing whispers out in the darkness that just barely made Wilson twitch, only hints of sound and voice to grace his ears. 

"...I've said my piece." The man's eyes were dull, hollow things, sunken and dark with skin too sallow and pulled to even look living, too pale and paper thin, and slowly he closed his eyes, hung his head limply, arms pinned and shadows encircling, wrapping like shackles all about him. "There is nothing more I wish to say to you."

The words, speech said earlier, exhaled in a broken breath and with a voice raggedly coughed out at first, hoarse beyond measure and drier than even Wilson could imagine, dehydrated as he was, those words meant near _nothing_ to him. It was all just sound, excuses, put upon airs, and yet empty and meaning less than so little.

Maxwell had nothing to say but a little ditty of words, not even an _apology_ , nor an explanation, and Wilson tightened his claws about the radio key and its wailing, crying out sound, mixing bad with the near jolly roll of the nearby gramophone.

The music replayed, continued unbroken about them, singing an air of opposite ends into the dark saltiness of this bleak landscape, so jarringly wrong in the face of a living puppeted corpse and Wilson's own broken, destroyed body.

But Wilson was not beaten; in fact, he slowly, dawningly realized, he had bested the game.

There was no prize, no returning home, but Wilson had _won_. 

The realization was an overblown sense of despair, relief, a twisted hint of victory, _he had won_ , and with a few limping steps Wilson stumbled over to the ever jolly spinning gramophone and, leaning heavy on the radio staff, kicked it with as much strength as he could afford.

It tumbled with a clatter, a sharp sound as the record cracked upon impact, a new dull ache in his foot as the stylus needle swept off with a sudden jarring rip of sound. The disc spun a few more times, the rumble of static as They went eerily silent out in the void of barren darkness, before there was a low clatter and the record shattered into pieces. The dented horn let out a last bellowing static wail, before it all went quiet.

A moment of silence, as he stared at the broken contraption, before it was interrupted by an audible sigh. The sunken Nightmare King had not moved, had not so much as twitched, eyes closed and head fallen, but, somehow, it seemed to Wilson that the man's face had changed in the ensuing blessed silence.

It wasn't twisted despair any longer, no. Only sorrowful relief in this silence, and Wilson dizzily leaned on the radio staff, feeling more and more ill, unsteady and blurry eyed as the seconds dragged on.

He had won, but there was no prize.

Slowly, dragging his gaze away from the pathetic King of Nightmares, Shadows, Torture Beyhond Words To Describe Nor Memory to Remember, Wilsons eyes landed upon the almost familiar keyhole, enreathed with shards of twitching shadow this time.

Their whispers rose once more in the dark, twittering whisper songs he could almost, just barely hear, and they sung and cooed and Wilson…

Swayed upon his handicap, and the promise of no more pain was a tempting one.

Slowly he limped over, the soft sound of his shoes in dust and dirt and the lower hint of the crumbled marble, near dragging the keys staff as he focused himself for this one, last, push.

The King barely even paid him any mind, any acknowledgement, and bitter anger, rage rose up Wilsons throat, settled thick on his dry tongue.

The road here had been long, hard, and too painful to even try to ever articulate, and it hadn't just been the monstrous creations at fault. Their King had played his part, even before Wilson had activated the mimicked portal he had stumbled upon in the thick of the woods, and even as his dizzy mind swirled under the weight of amnesia and lack of understanding he _knew_ far worse had been done to him.

He may not remember most of the horrors, the terrors of what has happened, he may never truly remember, but he knew what has been violated and assaulted, knew it had happened, and what did the King of Shadows tell him in response the moment he had come out on top?

_"It was all first dust and darkness, and I shaped it as I saw fit, god that I am."_

_"There is nothing else, at the end of it all. You should feel lucky to be here."_

_"It could have been worse, and now, it will be."_

Excuses, worthless words, nothing with meaning, nothing at all to Wilson, _nothing at all._

There was nothing to excuse the Kings behavior, and Wilson heard no apology. Whatever the whispers promised to him, Their words were so very shallow compared to what he truly wanted to hear.

But even Wilson didn't know, had little clue as to what words could ever alleviate the strain that had been done and what would always scar him. His own traitorous mind wouldn't even let him know the full extent, not now, possibly not ever.

The shadows whispered, cooed hauntingly, _we will help you_ , and Wilson swayed before the lock and its nightmarish spines, tendrils of smoky shadow. 

He was in pain, so much pain it was near mind numbing, and he was getting ever so tired now. He wished he could go home, stumble up the stairs and crawl into bed, pull the bedding up high and hide himself away from the world. No monsters would get him there, and no piercing, jeering laughter or too close prodding claws, sadistic glee in his suffering. 

Slowly he fought for his balance, raising up the key staff, slowly wiggling, inserting it snuggly inside. The shadows vibrated, Their whispers breaking into smattered squealing excitement, and the faint pressure, the faintest of gathering himself for that last act.

Before he followed through, however, Wilson raised his gaze.

The Nightmare King had turned his head, was watching him with dull, empty eyes, nothing but a skin and bones puppet, even that lasting sadism finally drained away and out. There was nothing there anymore, all gone at the very end of things.

The sight did not stop Wilson, as he gurgled out of a too dry throat, coughed heavy and full pressure in his chest, blood peeking from the corner of his lips as his injuries started to become too much and the shadows wailed in the eternal cold darkness.

"I…" His voice was rough, hoarse and near whispered silent, and Wilson squinted in pain, growing dizzier by the minute, light headed as the image of the corpse Nightmare King swayed back and forth. "...really...hate you."

With that the last of his energy faded out in a hush of his breath, and the key clicked, churned as he pushed it, locked it in.

Crumbling down to his knees, a silent heaved gasp as the fall jolted his already worn body, and Wilson dizzily looked up, forced himself as the shadows withered and swarmed and _sang_ out in the night darkness.

The Nightmare King seemed to struggle for a moment, boistured by shadows, before he was flung to his feet, tripping and swaying as shadows unbound, snapped away the tethers and left him reeling, bony knees knocking together under his own weight, face twisting from one sudden expression to the next, before something unfamiliar, a smile yet not tainted by amusement or sadism or dark rage pulled, tugged on the man's skeletal features. His arms rose in shaking victory, _freedom at last_ the whispers called, and Wilson, for a brief moment, saw the Nightmare King as almost, almost someone else entirely new.

And then Wilson watched as a scream burst out, echoed into the shadows singing orchestra, and the former Nightmare King of All crumbled away into dust and ash, flesh disintegrating and then finally bone, dropping to the knees and then collapsing down into…

Nothingness.

The world was growing grey, empty, numb, and Wilson rasped, throat stinging before fading away, and his eyes were falling closed but he just barely glimpsed the wither and coil of creeping forward shadows, Their quiet lilting whispers.

He didn't have enough in him to react. Not now, not anymore, his last words dragging up something deep and hard and all too heavy to settle in his chest, and it wasn't enough, to just speak them.

 _We can help_ , the shadows cooed, coiling around him, wrapping him up, and all Wilson could do was heave an exhale, a last one in Their encompassing grip.

All that was left in him, for that brief moment before humanity stripped away, was a deep sleeping rage, barely even touched, just barely.

Under Their loving words, it would only take a spark to ignite it, a lit match to the dry wood.

And the shadows sure do love a raging ravenous fire.

***

The fire crackled, sparked and popped on the new green wood, and Wilson sat there, fuming a silent confused mess of emotions as he stared into the flames.

His uninvited guest sat opposite of him, avoiding even looking in his general direction, just as silent.

Wilson could not remember his time in the Throne Room. All that rose in his memories was the bleak darkness, a red hot flare up hidden underneath, mushed together colors and strings of lined dialogue, thought he couldn't quite hear nor comprehend, and then perhaps a face.

A woman, flashing shadow shades and too wide, too soft a grin and thick clouds of rose perfume, and then the sparking phantom pain of lightning strike, painful and jittery and catching his breath in his throat and mind off guard in a whirled almost there panic, but that was all.

He didn't know how he got off the Throne, how he was back in the wilderness once again. Deductive reasoning spelled out that someone else had somehow followed in his footsteps, through the portal and the five worlds to replace him, but if he put even more thought into that it didn't make any sense whatsoever!

He's never met anyone else out here, no one but Maxwell and skeletal corpses. Some may be fresh at times, and even almost look like people instead of slow rotting cadavers, but not enough for Wilson to really envision the bodies as _alive_ in the past. Also, he would much rather _not_ try to think about it too hard, having been reduced to living off of anything at anytime and borderline starvation always pushed him to the limit, so cannibalism had not been enough of a taboo to stop his opportunistic survival nature.

Honestly, if he could have, Wilson would have been perfectly fine eating _Maxwell_ if he had gotten his claws on him. The Nightmare King, unfortunately, had been rather incorporeal most of the times Wilson had the energy to make such attempts however.

His mind glossed over the times where the King had a more physical form, smokey shadows twisting and coloring into a more solid mass. Wilson still tried to dig through his memory, piece together his worse nightmares and terrors, but they told stories he still felt unprepared to look upon.

And, that was if any of it was true and not just the shadows, the true puppeteers pulling strings and budding paranoia and suspicions in him. Now, _that_ thought did not calm him whatsoever.

Still, he was here now, right back where he had started and with near nothing to show for it but the know how of the inner portal worlds and the knowledge of the Throne itself. 

And, apparently, the former Nightmare King of the Constant, who sat in his camp, glaring at nothing and yet everything in sight.

Wilson had been...startled, to see that face peeking over the berry bushes and scowling at him. That wasn't the normal way of things, not at all, and then the old man had straightened up and he had a ridiculously badly made flower garland on his head and he somehow looked tired and roughed up and that just-

Was not what the Nightmare King usually showed himself to be.

And then the spark arrow of understanding raced up to his brain and Wilson had the sudden realization that Maxwell was really right _there_.

So it was completely understandable that he had shot up to his feet and thrown himself at the man with what was probably more of a primal scream than any actual shout. He hasn't talked in awhile, his voice disused, so any hoarseness on his part was not out of place.

What was more out of place, Wilson mused, gaze drifting over to where he had dropped it, was the fact that he hadn't taken his axe with him. He had been mentally overwhelmed, in a way that had not been good whatsoever, so the weapon had dropped from his claws into the grass and he had raised his fists and he supposed these horrid bone talons had a new use to them he never thoroughly considered.

It wasn't just bruises he had left in his rage on the other man; faint scratches, digging claw marks as well, and Wilson felt vaguely disgusted due to knowing he had blood still on his hands, even now. Then again, Maxwell had not sat idle either.

Wilson consciously rubbed a hand to his face, wincing at the soreness, his own bruising that aggravated the wounds he had acquired previously from hound attacks and unruly frogs at ponds. 

He may have been full of rage, but the sheer fact of the matter was that the spat had somehow devolved into a slap fight, of all things. He may have these visible bone claws, but from what he was still finding painful he was pretty sure Maxwell had something similar, just not as exaggerated. 

Still, a fucking slap fight. At the very end he had been able to shove the older man down, near ready to just wrap his claws about his throat and end it right there, but then there was the faint familiar sound of shadows and whispered giggles echoing along with faded chimes and the both of them had frozen for those precious few seconds.

The fire had been near out when Wilson had jerked away and raced over to it, disengaged their little fight to ensure the light was not extinguished and left them to the unmerciful nature of the night monster. It was odd to note, but stepping over the shadowy hand trying to end them, feeling it wither backwards at his presence as he had thrown a log into the firepit and hoped it would catch quick enough, Wilson had the near overwhelming scent of roses rush over him for that brief moment.

It was gone the next breath, but it had sent him reeling and feeling a flux of dark, heavy incomprehensible emotions to flush through him, leftovers from being graced on the Throne. He couldn't consciously remember the time, but some part of him was shaken from the experience.

With the adrenaline rush petering out, leaving his muscles more sore and even more exhausted than before, panting from the sheer stress of all this, Wilson had finally looked up at the sound of footsteps on dry grass and drier dirt, fixing his scowling gaze to his unwelcome guest.

Maxwell had stood there, swaying on too thin legs and trembling knees, looking worse for wear now with a black eye and light scratches from where Wilson had near clawed him, and for the first time since the beginning Wilson was struck with the Knowledge that Maxwell was _human_.

Or at least mortal. This sort of thing was hard to tell when he had horrible inhuman claws of his own.

So now they sat, opposite each other, and Wilson still whirled with his thoughts and unknowing emotional reactions he couldn't quite get a grip on, the tense silence thick over his camp.

What the hell was he supposed to do? 

When was the last time Wilson had actually had any sort of interaction with another human being? He couldn't even bring up faces to his memories, _knowing_ he had lived secluded but close enough to a town to fetch supplies. He never really answered other peoples greetings, small talk short and snipped as he focused on what he was doing, but that…

That was _so long ago_. 

As the silence only grew between them, the night ticking along, the very faint tint to the far horizon as morning crept its way closer and closer, Wilson brooded on his new, unfamiliar situation. Across the fire, his visitor sat quietly, and did not offer up any way to figure this out.

As he supposed he should expect, but Wilson still did not _know_. He hardly knew this man! All he had to go off of was before this point in time, the Thrones influence and his memory full of holes, and it certainly did not paint an accurate picture. The Maxwell of then would not be just sitting there, uncomfortable and wordless; Wilson half expected him to be sweeping up at any moment, to pace like a tiger in a cage and eye him up, sharp toothed grin and the heavy smog of cigars and that blasted fur lined coat as he spoke in a voice untouched by strain or stress.

But the man had no coat here, no cigars, nothing but a dirty dull looking suit set piece and a beat up, hollow face. The garland, in all its badly made glory, was missing; he must have lost it in their fight earlier.

Morning dawned, slow, almost hesitant, as if unsure. The very air itself tasted different, strange, clearer and not as stagnant, a change Wilson just barely noticed with each breath. He was so used to this world now that anything new would catch his attention, but right now his senses were not attentive to the outside world.

Knowing there was an actual real, living, _breathing_ person in his camp that was, for lack of better word, mostly _human_ was sort of stalling him. He had no idea how he was supposed to react to this.

Then a pinching, gnawing sensation made itself known in his belly, and Wilson knew, very well in fact, how to take care of that.

One of those things he was rather good at, actually, and with a hissed heave of an exhale he got to his feet, ignoring the soreness as he limped over to his ice box. His left leg was still giving him some trouble after those hounds arrived a few days ago, and now all this strain was aggravating it.

Digging through the cold metal contraption, the chilly air puffing out of it and sending goosebumps up over his skin, almost soothing to the pains of bruising tenderness, Wilson dug out the previous meal he had made yesterday. 

He had been saving it for a later time, but right now he did not feel safe leaving camp alone to hunt. Not with this new situation, no.

The acknowledgement of not being alone made him hesitate a moment, and Wilson slowly raised his head from the ice box, looking to where his unwanted guest sat.

The old man had barely moved, not even shifted from where he sat, legs criss crossed tight and close, arms folded in his lap, back hunched in a way Wilson has literally _never_ seen before. That was not the normal position he expected to see out of the Nightmare King, even displaced as he was now.

The man looked...small, somehow. Strange, and not what had once been there in the first place. As if all the airs of the shadows, stripped away, left behind something totally different in Their wake.

Wilson forcefully shook his head, grimacing as he turned his attention back to his stored food. He scolded himself for being the fool, knowing that he had no reasoning for it, that this place _should_ have sheared away any leftover positive piece of himself by now, but that didn't change the fact that he had taken two of the kabobs out of the ice box, shutting the door quietly and going back to his seat.

For a split moment he did consider just eating both of them, some sort of odd way of showing what he could...do, or something like that.

But there was a blip of emotion in him, the part that wasn't near half dead yet and still thrived when he tended to the smaller beasts of this world, memories of toddling shortbirds and young catcoons dogging his steps, and Wilson sat there before his low fire as dawn broke over the horizon, finally holding out his arm with his…

Not quite a peace offering, certainly not a white flag, but perhaps a truce of some sort. That was what Wilson was willing to call it, that was all.

For a few moments, staring stubbornly into the dying fire, he almost expected it to be turned down, ignored. Perhaps a part of him wished for that to justify himself even, but then there was a tentative weight and pull and he let the kabob go in the other man's grip.

A shiver rolled up his spine, displaced, but Maxwell had thankfully not touched him in the exchange, not even brushed close.

Words still rose up his throat, bitter and hard in his chest, so Wilson let them out as a way to force acknowledgment.

"Don't take this the wrong way; I still hate you."

There was an answering hum, delayed and rough, hoarse even, so different and unfamiliar to what he's always heard before, and Wilson glanced over to see Maxwell considering the meat and vegetable skewer.

The old man's voice had lost that deeper baritone to it, the layering smirk that the shadows had always seemed to imply, and instead he somehow sounded almost shockingly _normal._

"I wouldn't expect any less from you, pal."

But still an asshole, Wilson realized, scowling at the fire.

He had just the worse luck, didn't he?

***

Carefully, very carefully, Wilson slowly started to saw away at the ropes tied about his hands, bone claws twisted uncomfortably and rubbing away at the tough fibers.

Beside him, hunched over and sporting even more ropes than what Wilson had on, Maxwell just barely acknowledged his movements, silent and still.

All about the both of them was the hustle and hushed conversation of too many people at once, overlaying like the shadows whispers and yet much too loud to be fake. 

Back at that moment in time, only a few short hours ago, Wilson had thought he had gone completely and hopelessly mad.

And then Maxwell had sputtered a very hasty "Might want to start running pal" and had left him in the dust as one of the people stumbling from the portals gates rose up her arm, spear in hand as she roared a battle cry.

Wilson had hesitated a few precious seconds, shock still gutting him for a moment as the portal rumbled and shook, more humanoid forms tumbling out in a rush of blasting energy, and then he got a good look at the women's wild eyes and that rather sharp spear pointed directly at him and he turned on his heel and sprinted after the other man.

He had caught up with Maxwell, the old man's stamina flagging all too soon as more confused shouting started up behind them, and Wilson might have just outpaced him even!

Before Maxwell hissed a low "Apologies, pal" and purposefully tripped him up, sent him sprawling and knocking the wind from his lungs as Wilson fell.

There had been no time to get angry, only a flash of bitter rage at the betrayal before there was a call in voices he had no familiarity with and instead Wilson swept a frantic gaze around to find a way out.

His claws were quite helpful then, scrambling up a tree and pressing himself close to the middle, in between branches and ignoring the stinging from where he got scraped up. Still gasping from getting the air knocked out of him, the adrenaline rushing through his limbs and making him tremble and shake, Wilson had finally gotten a moment to breath.

Someone had seen him go up, however, and he was surrounded, voices all rising up too much for him to try and decipher, too much sound at once, loudness and colors and just, just-

_It was too damn much!_

Palms clamped to his ears, shutting his eyes and curled up as best as he could, and Wilson had shivered there as the new people talked, as more ran around, as all this suddenness just kept _happening_.

The portal wasn't supposed to do this. It was _supposed_ to be a way back home, not just, drag people _here_! 

He didn't even know if they came from the real world or if they've been in the Constant this entire time! The confusion was dreadfully distressing, and all he could do was stay curled up, trying to calm his breathing, every sound too loud, sudden, their voices jarringly unfamiliar and too loud, too much.

He's only heard his own voice and Maxwells, for so long. Even before the Throne it was just him and the old man, and he didn't count pigmen or rabbitmen or merms or walruses, those were not, not _human_.

And, very suddenly, there were a great many humans surrounding the tree he was hiding in.

Eventually he heard more yelling, an influx of sound, and then a very familiar squawking and shouting of curbed curses down below. Wilson had carefully balanced low, dipping his head to peek out, and he caught a glimpse of Maxwell as the old man was dragged through the dirt and grass by some very strong, very angry looking people. 

The sight was a confusing one, mind blanking at this sudden influx of a far more complicated environment than he was used to, so Wilson didn't notice when someone had stared up at him from down below.

"Shorty's still here everyone!" 

The call had him jerk back, scramble backwards as there was more yelling, talking, but the tree shook and shuddered and there was the telltale sound of an axe to the trunk and Wilson had been too overwhelmed with shock and panic and utter dizzying confusion-

When the tree had fallen he had tried to run away, stumbling as he had tumbled and hissing from the bruises.

They had caught him almost too easily.

So now he sat here, tied up with someone he very much didn't want to be near at the moment, as people talked all around him and the confusion started ebbing away, conversation and words he was still trying to decipher. 

It wasn't that they were said in another language, though at least one of those big fellows seemed to speak in a thick accent of some sort; it was the fact that they all seemed to talk all over each other, too many voices of different frequencies, different tones, and it was just so damn _difficult_ trying to figure it all out.

Shaking his head, trying to rattle his brain into order once more, Wilson carefully kept his pace up with his claws. The rope was tied thick, over and over and not just in one knot, so this may take awhile.

Maxwell shifted beside him, head low but shiny dark eyes watching, darting about the camp in a cruel squint.

It was enough for Wilson to roughly elbow him in the arm.

"Stop being so obvious." He hissed quietly, a whisper as he adjusted his legs the best that he could. Being tied by the ankles seemed a bit overkill to him, but at least he wasn't strung up like the old man, ropes about the chest and all up and down his legs, arms stiffly pulled tight to his sides, leaving near no wiggle room.

"I am not being obvious, Higgsbury." Maxwell hissed back, breathing deep and letting it out in a low whistle, only a glance towards him with those too shiny eyes. "You are the one moving too much."

"I am not." Wilson scowled at him, face drawn hard, but he did slow down his sawing motions, shifted a bit more.

He wasn't quite sure if he was correct, but if he was it sort of looked as if Maxwell was having a hard time breathing.

The flare up of Knowledge rose on his tongue, thinking about swallowing it before Wilson shook his head again, shaking his skull, trying to order his thoughts about. Better safe than sorry, as he knew.

"...They didn't tie you up too tight, right?"

That actually spurred the old man into glaring at him, giving Wilson a very good view of his heaving chest, how he kept clawing at the ropes at his sides but achieving nothing with his gloves on. He didn't get any verbal answer, but when Maxwell turned away Wilson could see how the old man wiggled, shifting and pushing his shoes in the dusty earth before going still again, jaw clenched tight.

So not too tight, no. Just something else plaguing him was all, and nothing either of them could do about it.

Besides saw his claws slow, back and forth into the rope. Wilson already knew he'd not get through it, it was too thick, too strong, heavy stuff that the big warrior woman had on her, and at the thought Wilson raised his own eyes to the people around them.

It looked like they were throwing together a camp, already a stone firepit set in the middle, larger than normal as one woman piled logs and sticks and pinecones inside it, pigtails long and dragging heavy from her back. From here Wilson could see how her clothes were pocket marked, charred at the edges, and he squirmed uncomfortably at the thought of forest fire, knowing all too well how it felt to die like that.

Another woman was directing a few of the others, a book with papyrus papers she kept sifting through in her arms, feathered pencil in hand as she pointed and spoke and ordered. She wasn't as tall as some of them, older sour wrinkles dragging her face behind her square glasses, but the others adopted uneasy, unsure expressions and seemed to deter to her. 

These people didn't know each other, Wilson realized, wrists starting to ache as he kept going. The first time so many people were in one place here, and all united because…

He glanced at Maxwell again, the old man hunched up and scowling at nothing in particular. 

It was because of Maxwell, or maybe the reputation of the former Nightmare King. They must not have gotten the memo about the Throne.

Wilson had been quiet when he had been tied up, shaken and frozen in a horrible mixture of shock and fear, so the only notable thing to happen had been when his claws were very carefully, and tightly, tied up behind his back.

Maxwell, on the other hand, had fought and struggled and spat insults out the entire time. He hadn't said any names, only titles if Wilson recalled correctly, and had only shut up when one woman had shoved his face into the dirt to finish tying him up.

Their faces had been so serious, Wilson realized, but now…

Now, one of the big men who looked to be setting up a tent of some sort looked spooked, eyes wide and nervous, an odd mixture with just how big he was. The cause of his anxiety seemed to be the little girl sitting in the flowers nearby, her wide eyes staring at him, sometimes speaking a few words that he answered back, but Wilson wasn't close enough to hear.

The big warrior woman was talking to the old lady, voice loud but not understandable with her heavy accent. Nearby them, still cutting up the tree that Wilson had previously hid up in, a bearded man paused to look about with heavy brows low, bright red axe in his grip as he seemed to stroke its blade in a soothing manner. Wilson looked away before that serious stare could land on him, shoulders drawn up tense.

His movements inadvertently scooted him closer to the other man, but all Maxwell did was stiffen up, glaring as the area really started to look like a camp instead of some empty barren plotland. For all his bitterness at being ditched earlier, left to the fate of very angry and very real human beings, Wilson could feel his anxiety spiking again, swallowing thickly as he pressed his side against the old man's.

He didn't like him, not at all, but right now Maxwell was the only thing familiar to this ever changing setting and he needed the anchor to keep his mind steadied. If he wanted to get out of this alive and well, he needed to ensure he didn't drown under the panic of being overwhelmed.

With that solid pressure against him, not quite warm but definitely there, Wilson blinked and shook his mind back into order, focus, he had to _focus_.

There was puffing steam and faint thumps over by the half done tent now, the big man accosted by a-

_A literal metal man._

It must be a suit of some sort, had to be, but the proportions were all sorts of wrong for that line of thinking, and it seemed the sight of the metal man scared the other enough for him to yell out.

That caught the attention of the old woman and the warrior, and then the two small groups converged as talking started up, loud and uproarious, chaotic enough for Wilson to look away from with his jaw grit tight.

He was going to have to get used to all this at some point, wasn't he? Unless these people just up and killed him.

Wilson hoped they wouldn't. He curled his claws self consciously, exhaling shakily at the thought, Knowledge that it was his bone talons that had made them like this, made him suspicious to them. Him being right next to Maxwell may have set the scene, but these stupid claws were what had really shifted the tone.

His gaze drifted, and then landed on an unlikely pair off nearer to the outskirts.

Some sort of black arachnid looking thing, short and puffed up bristles and the whites of flashing fangs, sparking a tickling at the back of Wilson's mind, faint and not really quite remembered, and the tall lithe man besides the creature was nodding his head, painted face falling into serious thought.

And then the both of them turned their eyes to look directly at him.

Wilson froze up, bared his face into a subconscious fearful snarl, before he tore his gaze away and to the ground, huddling back even more against Maxwell's side, pressing close for some sort of sense of comfort. That made the old man huff, a growl of a sound even as Wilson shivered, tried to not think too much about how his brain sort of itched from just looking at those two oddballs.

"Weren't you just saying something about not drawing attention?" Hissed in a low whisper, dark as the old man glared at him with his shiny eyes, and Wilson floundered in his bubbling panic and age old bitterness for a moment before his usual rage won out.

"Yeah, I was!" He snarled back, still hushed, and forcefully wiggled away, claws tightening to the tiniest hint of give the ropes on him now had. "Stop glaring at all of them and maybe their guard will let up for a moment!"

Maxwell snorted at that, before Wilson aimed a badly flung kick to the side as he put more distance between them, face tense even as the old man wheezed and curled up as best as he could from the hit.

Even though it brought a certain measure of satisfaction from the act, a thin bit of guilt rose up as well, knowing full well that Maxwell's treatment earlier had not done him any favors whatsoever. The old man wasn't injured too badly, but the roughness he had been handled with hinted to worse that may come.

Still, it wasn't enough for Wilson to be spurred into apologizing. 

Settling now, he raising his eyes cautiously and watched as these strange new people went about their ways, sticking close together and putting up the familiar structures of a campsite, though one much more competent than he was used to. Wilson's strain dragged his face into a frown, unease as the faint tinges of anxiety started to rise once again.

"...Maybe if I tell them the truth they'll go easy on us?"

He didn't even have to look as Maxwell huffed at him, another, more wheezier snort as he rolled his eyes.

"Sure, pal, you do that. I'm sure these imbeciles will sympathize with your sob story, and maybe even just disregard those monstrous talons of yours too while they're at it." 

Wilson turned his head to glare at him, scowling at the faintest upturn of Maxwell's face, as if the old man found this funny somehow.

Maybe he did, Wilson thought to himself.

"And maybe you're forgetting you're part of this too. What do you think they'll do to you if I don't say anything?"

"Kill us both, obviously."

The stark manner Maxwell said that drew Wilson back a moment, unprepared for the bluntness, and for a moment he sat in silence, brooding over what he could do to get out of this situation.

And then he heaved a sigh, heavy and still quiet, hushed, but the rage had left in a flux of hopeless bitterness to fill his voice instead.

"I really do hate you, you know."

Before Maxwell could answer to that, snarky sarcastic or maybe for once more seriously, there was the sound of approaching footsteps and Wilson blinked up at the strangers as they crowded about their prisoners, so many different eyes alert and focused.

"Well, you two," spoke up the old woman, looking down upon them, the shine of her glasses obscuring her eyes as her lips puckered in a whistling breath, a pause of thought between words, "It is time for decisions to be made."

She angled her head, a nod to the warrior woman and big bearded man, and with that Wilson was tugged up to a stand, going silent once more at the contact. At least the man wasn't rough, only firm; Maxwell had a bit of trouble, legs seeming to have gone to sleep underneath him and now suffering the consequences as the woman jerked him up hard, dragged him forcefully into a stand. 

"Come along now, there is no time to waste." The old woman turned on her heel, a sweep as she started to lead the group forward, Wilson and Maxwell in stumbling tow. "Let us finish this before nightfall."

Up ahead was another contraption that Wilson hadn't quite noticed being made earlier, some sort of wooden platform, and that metal man stood there beside it, somehow giving off the air of a grin of excitement.

Wilson swallowed hard, staring at the wooden planks and well made pillars, and had the worst of thoughts grace him as they approached, the low whispers of the strange people rising about him as he was led on.

It almost looked like a gallows.

***

Spider Queens were no laughing matter, as Wilson knew very well.

Should know very well, at any rate. He should know how dangerous they were, should know the telltale signs, the ways of the spiders as their Queen mother started to awake, should know _better_.

The spider nest itself hadn't looked old enough, too brand new on the path that went from pig village to base camp, and there had been talk a few nights ago of getting rid of it, cutting down the numbers. Webber had not seemed enthusiastic at all, clicking and chirping up about how the spiders were still sleepy, not ready to attack anyone, _didn't_ want to attack anyone, and with them being the most knowledgeable for spiders their opinion was deterred to.

The kid had a good heart, good intentions, but saving one spider nest set too close on the path was a recipe for future disaster.

As Wilson was dealing with now, stumbling his way to a tree to try and get a hold to, the sounds of the Spider Queen shrieking in offense and outrage echoing out behind him. 

Every once in awhile a low whispering exhale washed over, a ghosts soft battle cries, and a glance back showed him the dizzy smear of Abigail pulsing red about her sisters foe, burning silk and chitin and searing the flesh below, making the behemoth arachnid howl. Those fanged mandibles kept trying to take a snap at her, but darting shadows and their coiling swords distracted each attempt, interrupting with well timed stabs and slashes, their puppeteer a brief flash of grey and dodging back as he joined in the attack.

The other twin was nowhere to be found, and Wilson panted for breath, hoping she was staying well out of the way. Spider Queens had large broods, ready birthed warriors that leapt out with barely a notice, and the thought of one of those things chewing on a child was a deeply upsetting one.

Gasping now, a light rasp as he focused his breathing, one clawed hand pressed firmly to his side and the other keeping his balance against the tree, and Wilson winced when he briefly pulled his hand away, bone talons stained with blood, sticky and gritty before applying the pressure back. He didn't have his backpack on him, no medical supplies, so slowly Wilson let himself crumble down to his knees, free hand going to fumble with his vest buttons, perhaps make some sort of makeshift bandage.

His bloody claws kept slipping, blinking slow at the creeping fuzzy muffle that had quieted the sounds of the fight, quieted everything really. It was getting a bit harder to see, breathe, dizzy from it all, and while Wilson knew he could handle this, he could, he's done it before he could do it again, the knowledge of his lack of insurance was a vague pressing thought.

His effigy had already been used, that hound pack and Varg while out hunting with Wigfrid had assured that, to the warrior woman's extreme dismay. Waking up to try and shake off the pieces of wooden shell only to get interrupted by the theatrical wails of a large woman picking him up and swinging around as if auditioning for a part in a tragic play had been largely unappreciated at the time, though later the realization she found him dying distressing had certainly mixed up some odd mismatches of feelings.

After so long he's forgotten that he was supposed to _care_ that he ended up dead sometimes.

Right now though, he just felt vaguely disappointed. It wasn't just the gouge in his side from massive spider claws that was draining him of his strength; his back was getting sticky from being coated in his own blood, a nipping bite that had almost latched onto him earlier as he had thoughtlessly shoved the intended targeted man out of the way, before Abigail had slammed forward to burn and char the Spider Queens eyes closed, enough to drop him back down, and while it didn't instantly kill him a brief limp brush with his claws over where it hurt inflamed it a bit more, the bite already swelling and venom running through his veins. That explained why he wasn't panicking, only a drag to his limbs, weakness and a slow numbing wave rising in his mind's eye.

He was, getting a little too tired, wobbling side to side on his knees before sliding down against the tree trunk, one clawed hand going to try and half heartedly scrape at it, leave streaks of blood behind. The movement jostled his wound, hissing a sharp wheeze at the shot of pain in his side before that buzzed into static oblivion as well. By now he couldn't even _hear_ the Spider Queen, only the faintest flashes of jagged movement in the corners of his peripheral vision giving any hints, and Wilson slowly exhaled, inhaled, a deeper pressure settling atop him. That venom sure did work faster with Spider Queens than it did with the warriors.

Vaguely he realized he was going to bleed out. Which, wasn't going to be the first time really, and probably wouldn't be the last.

The only thing that still worried him, nagged at the back of his sluggish mind, was the fact that he didn't even have a touchstone tied to him. No effigy, no touchstone, nothing at all to keep him tied here to this specific world.

He's been here awhile too, made his mark and settled in for one of those few times these camps were more hospitable. It was getting easier, fitting in with people again, but still. Wilson didn't want to just _leave_ it all behind, start over somewhere new.

But with the state of things he didn't think he was in much luck.

There was movement, close by disturbance that made him raise his head in a dizzy tip that near made him drop over, but with the tree at his side he was able to stop the slide down, claws twitching at the feeling of blood oozing, gushing out from between them. At least he could be glad it wasn't enough to pierce and rip his organs out; that would have been messy.

Next to him was a girl, small and with her hands clasped in front of her, looking down at him with wide, empty eyes. Her sister was still absent from her side, so still making an attack on the Spider Queen, and seeing her alone without that ever constant glow seemed to make the image even gloomier than normal.

Wendy was a quiet child, which was to be expected out here Wilson supposed, faced with death and undeath and monsters and pain and suffering, along with just in general being accompanied by her own dead twin, and her melancholy was still a bit much for even him. 

He was used to accepting his fate, sometimes it was the only way to keep going, but sometimes it felt as if Wendy was taking the concept too far. It was not something Wilson was used to dealing with, and he was unsure if he ever would be.

"...You do not have long for this world." Wendy remarked quietly, softly, staring down at him, and Wilson was able to take a rasping breath and sort of lean his injury away from her eyes, a vain attempt to keep the violence well hidden. "Your life leaves you so slowly, yet I envy you."

"You sh, should've gotten away by nn, now." 

He wheezed, and his thoughts were getting a bit unorganized, hard to slog through them and speak them through numbing lips but he was fairly certain Wendy should have ran off back to camp. To go get some help maybe? He couldn't quite remember anymore.

"The Queen is finished, and knows she is on her last legs. Much like yourself."

Wendy tilted her head, eyed him with a blank gaze he couldn't quite read, he was never very good at interpreting other people's expressions, and he still didn't know her well enough to even be able to guess.

He also was starting to feel as if he was sliding down a fuzzy dark tunnel, his grip on the tree loosening as he finally lost the strength to keep to his knees, crumbling down instead. The movement jostled him, side sparking hot red static before fizzling out just as quickly, locking his lungs for a moment in the pain before the venom numbed it all out again. Pins and needles, all through his limbs, and the side where his wound was had left his clothing sticky and damp with his own blood, a brief flash of disgust on his face before gritting up again as he tried to fuzzily endure. His entire back was completely numb, an odd weight to it and only slight lacing pain down his neck, crossing over his throat to his chest with each strained breath.

He hadn't noticed she had gotten closer, shuffling over to look at him with keen interest, and for a dizzying second Wilson felt as if he'd been in a similar situation once, leaning over dying bugs from pesticides or watching a rat die from poisoning in the corner of the house, hidden away from everything and everyone, prying eyes or disgusted, disappointed voices, words and thoughts.

"...Does it hurt, Mr. Higgsbury?" She spoke softly, a thread of genuine curiosity in her voice as she continued on. "Do you wish for it to end?"

Wilson found it had to swallow, throat closing up a bit now, but he was light headed enough, numb enough to not feel anything but discomfort, hot heavy pressure billowing up as the world flashed its greys and darks, like a slow crawling fog, a wave. 

If he was more conscious of everything he'd remember the familiarity of death, and it was coming sooner rather than later now.

For a moment he felt the sudden urge to not let the girl see it, claws scraping the tree and tightening painfully to his wound, an attempt to wake up, he should move, she shouldn't have to watch him _die_ , but the strength went out of him even before his attempt and all he accomplished was a rather weak twitch, a rasping hissed exhale from his throat.

Neither of them noticed when a faint glow started drawing closer, drifting with faint whispers, slowing to silence as it neared.

It was only Wendy who heard the sudden voice, shout.

"Girl, what do you think you are doing!?"

She leaned back, the sound of someone half jogging, half limping over, and then Abigail was wailing quietly, circling her sister with rifts of fog and too wide eyes, whispers high and low and near frantic as attention and understanding drifted close, near too late now-

Wilson vaguely realized there was someone grabbing him, eyes having fallen closed without really recognizing he had done so, but when he blinked them open in a weak squint it was all dark shadowy silhouettes, wobbling fuzzy greys and whites and blacks, swirling into a muffling mess of images and shapes, voices all muddled together in only briefly clear conversation.

"-idn't I tell you to get to camp, drag someone out here to help-"

"-igail handled it well all on her own-"

"-n't care, get going this instant-"

"-oo late for him-"

"-I said go!"

That cut through, a snarling off putting sound, near shouted, and then faint muffled footsteps but Wilson was tipping again, the flare up of pain from being moved fading away, letting him drift, fall, he was, was fairly close now-

"-on't you dare, Higgsbury-"

He couldn't do anything about being roughly manhandled, sharp red pains pricking and jabbing as he was moved about forcibly, strength gone and limp as hands put him to his back, pressure suddenly pressed all too harshly to his side and then the feeling of his vest being unbuttoned.

"-I will not be left to the whims of the rest of these imbeciles-"

After that the fog really set in, punctuated by brief flashes of pain, shocks of near agony, enough to jolt him almost awake but not enough to shear away the fuzzy darkness separating him from everything else, pressure and binding and then more movement as those hands went to the burning pain on his back, hesitating only a moment before he was pushed to lay on his side, jostling his nerves with discomfort and giving his claws enough to twitch and dig at the dirt. The vagueness of it was the venom, he foggily recognized, feeling as if floating, maybe, or something like that, a few inches in the wrong direction and growing darker, but words still cut through from time to time.

"-will not be left alone-"

"-hile you go off to another-"

"-more prepared next time-"

"-reckless bleeding heart idiot, Wilson-"

And then a low influx of something else, new voices, babbling as more hands suddenly had him up and jostling and then setting down and it, it still didn't quite _hurt_ , not yet, just fog and mist and low words, tones, a hand here or there, pressure, finally stopping and moved again and this time somewhere warmer, stuffier. 

And then the muffling started to fade, seep away, and very faintly Wilson twitched his claws and felt the first shreds of actual pain as hands went back to work on him.

Later on he'd realize that the venom must have been wearing off.

At the time, however, all he knew was the sudden upheave of actual clear cut _agony_ as he was stitched back up.

And that lasted for all too long, voice going long hoarse before someone finally got a hold on the telltale odor of a mandrake, which thankfully knocked him clean out.

It was, of course, the waking up later that really set in the whole experience.

Wilson didn't open his eyes. Breathing was easier now, not so shallow or locked up, but there was pain, aching and a dull roiling that rose up at his side, throbbing on his back and shoulder. 

He's had experience stitching himself up, though never that good or very cleanly with these uncooperative bone talons, so the dull ache was familiar feeling. The bite at his back stung, more just bandaged up than anything else, but the fact that it was cared for was sort of a surprise.

He had thought he'd bleed out, be dead by now. Camp was still more than a good five minutes walk from that nest on the cobble path, and his memory of what had happened was overlapped by mist and gaping holes masquerading as blank empty spaces of time.

He vaguely remembered Wendy being there, the Spider Queen still fighting in the background, but little else. 

There was movement, shifting fabric, and Wilson finally opened his eyes to see he was in a tent, set on one of the wood made cots. Uncomfortable and stiff, and a bit unsteady at times, but it kept the injured off the ground.

The lumberjack fellow had helped Wilson make these. He had done the blueprints, and Woodie had done the cutting and carving up of the trees, the both of them piecing it all together. There weren't many of them, requiring more time and energy than usual, but right now Wilson was glad he wasn't just laid out in the dirt.

The tent itself was small, only a few chests, two cots and one crooked stool; the medical area then. It couldn't hold too many people, but it was easier to clean up blood and corpses when the need rose.

And, having just come inside the tent was the former Nightmare King himself.

Limping, and looking quite ghastly actually, as he fiddled in one of the chests filled with what medical supplies everyone could gather. Wilson slowly, very carefully rose up with his elbows, thought the movement had him wincing at the sharp stab at his side, a whistling exhale escaping him. The sound alerted the other man, and when Maxwell turned around his face was dour and eyebrows drawn low in the customary moody scowl.

There were bandages on him, his suit jacket for once removed and one shirt sleeve rolled up, revealing bandages all up and down his arm, as well as a bit of wrapping to his head as well. Not nearly as bad as Wilsons wounds, of course, but he did look rather beat up and bruised otherwise, which Wilson did find himself commenting on.

"...Well, you look like shit."

Maxwell's face somehow soured even more at the blunt comment, gaze darting down to the poultices in his hands as he gave them a look over.

"Pot calling the kettle black, pal." He seemed to count them, a few crooked jars of spider gland mixes and a singular honey bandage wrap, before ambling over to Wilson's cot. "You are worse off by far, however."

He seemed to limp ever so slightly, a drag to his foot as Wilson glanced down and noted the bandaging there as well, even a splint. The old man wasn't as solid as Wilson, could hardly take a hit without bruising up black and blue. But, he seemed to be speaking true; he didn't look to be too terribly injured like Wilson.

There was a narrowed gaze for a moment, as if thinking, but then Maxwell held out the honey wrappings, face dark and neutral.

"They seemed to think you'd be out for awhile."

Wilson hesitated only a moment, thinking on the choice of words, before he accepted the offering and watched as Maxwell turned and eased back onto the stool nearby, slow and stiffly keeping his injured leg held out as he heaved a sigh.

Turning the bandages over, the faint stickiness of honey on his claws making him realized that someone must have cleaned him up of the blood and dirt and spider spit, Wilson finally had a look at his side wound.

His shirt had been removed earlier, along with his vest, so idly he hoped those were not just thrown into the fire and were actually being fixed up, he didn't have much clothing in this place and he wasn't like Willow, he very much liked having clothes, but very carefully letting his claws brush over the sutures Wilson felt at least assured that it had been done well.

Probably Wickerbottom, since she was fairly knowledgeable on medical practice. Wolfgang had some first aid knowledge as well, but the big man might have found it harder working on something like stitches.

From prior experience Wilson also knew Maxwell had a good hand with this sort of thing, but he also knew the old man rarely, if ever, implemented anesthesia of any sort. Mandrake and pipe flutes were too rare to waste on something like _painkillers_ , as Wilson remembered being told once as he had suffered through the hound bite and bone breaks of his entire ravaged arm. 

He still wasn't willing to let that go, though Maxwell was ironically enough fairly quiet when in pain. Might be something to do with the Throne and having a high pain tolerance, though Wilson was obviously not allowed to run tests or experiments.

He couldn't have a look at the bite on his back, but even though it still throbbed in pain a brief touch told him it wasn't as swollen as before. That one should heal much easier and quicker, the bandaging clean feeling under his palms.

His stitches didn't bleed either, though dull pain still blossomed from it, spreading through his nerves and staying constant.

It would need to be covered before he ever left the tent, to ensure nothing agitated it or infection set in, so after a moment of examining the handwork Wilson carefully unrolled the honey bandaging and got to work pasting it on. The wound was only on one side, not big enough to warrant wrapping all around him, so sticking it on took a bit of fiddling around.

"...I dare say a few of the others were quite worried you'd up and die on the way here."

Wilson looked up to see Maxwell tending to his arm, a few bloody bandages hanging unwrapped as he spread spider goop up and down the wound. Even from here it looked bad, a dragging bite that fangs must have latched to and then had trouble hanging on, but the old man was at least taking care of it.

"The spider child was especially distraught."

"I...guess they would be." Wilson nodded his head, looking back to his own work as the honey stuck up in his claws. "I hope someone told them it wasn't their fault?"

"They believe it was. They were the one to say the creature wouldn't awaken anytime soon, after all." Maxwell ignored Wilsons aimed frown, now slowly, a bit unsteadily wrapping the bandaging back up again.

Wilson bit his tongue to not say anything; those wrappings were dirtied, but Maxwell did what he wished when it came to tending to his own wounds. Besides sometimes Wilson, not many of the others ever offered to help the old man out. 

"Still, you are not dead. That should settle any fears."

Wilson watched the man take the rest of the salve and push up the bandaging about his forehead, dabbing to the obvious cuts and bruises on his temple and up, before he shook his head with an internal sigh, finishing up his own first aid. His voice kept even, neutral as he answered back with a finishing sweep of his claws to new bandaging.

"Why were they worried? I've gone through worse and walked away just fine."

"Oh yes, that's what I said." There was a cheeky tone to that, Wilson narrowing his eyes as an almost smirk crept on the older mans face, still focused to the injuries on his head. "I had a few choice examples to give, but unfortunately no one wanted to hear them."

"Well, good. Those are not just something you tell people willy nilly."

"Hm, if you say so, pal." Maxwell finished up with his haphazard attempts at first aid, looking pleased with himself now as well as a hint sly, turning shiny pitch black eyes to Wilson now as he set the empty salve jars aside. "But I do find those times worth remembering. There was a particular one similar to this, involving a rather angry koalaphant I do believe. Do you remember that one?"

Wilson did, in fact, remember that one, a brief flash of phantom pain to his chest and near his new side wound, the many times that horrid wintery creature had gored him and tried trampling him down. He was not particularly fond of the rising memory however, and his glare reflected that.

"Yes, I do, and no, I don't want you mentioning it again."

"Oh, but you did survive the encounter, only for the Deerclops to-"

"Maxwell, _stop._ "

His change in tone shut the old man up real quick, wiped that smirk off his face as well, and for a moment they sat in silence, those dark eyes looking away as Wilsons claws pricked his own palms, curled up as tight as they were. The stuffy air of the tent had grown tense, and after a moment Maxwell slowly got to his feet, the creaking cracks of his bones making Wilson finally look away.

"...Well, I suppose I should go break the horridly good news with the rest of them then."

"You go do that."

His words gave Maxwell pause right before the tents closed doors, Wilson glaring at the ground now, focusing on keeping his breathing even and temper under control.

"...Pal, you could at the very least show some appreciation."

"For what?!" This time Wilson snapped that out, turning a hard glare at the other man, meeting his eye contact and holding it in place. "I don't remember you doing anything helpful recently and I hate you enough as it is, so why don't you piss off and let me be?!"

There was a beat of silence, stiff and tense, but then Maxwell tilted his head up, a pretentious 'hmph' before out he exited. Tent flap doors, unfortunately, did not recreate being slammed closed like normal doors, so with that the tent was his once more.

Wilson sat there, vaguely seething, before he closed his eyes and counted to ten, slow and easy. After that he unclenched his hands, faint pains from where he had pricked himself but he at least wasn't bleeding. There was a dull strain to his side, but the honey poultice was helping alleviate much of the pain. The throbbing in his shoulder was going down, and he definitely felt exhausted, so with that Wilson finally scooted back into laying down, heaving a sigh of relief.

At least he hadn't died, he thought to himself. He'll have to ask someone later what happened, probably Wickerbottom, but at least he was still here, and still alive.

***

In the continually confusing timeframe of the ever changing Constant, farther ahead in the future, Wilson would eventually learn to not trust WX78's words upfront.

Or, at the very least really think about it critically. When faced with an absolutely massive beehive oozing honey and faintly buzzing to itself, surrounded by other, quieter hives, perhaps he should have really thought over the "advice" he had been given.

Honey was always good to have on hand, in stock, stored away, whatever anyone needed of it, and having been told that the giant hives usually had so much honey not many bees could actually fit in them might have _sounded_ a bit sketchy, but Wilson did not have any reason to be suspicious. The android has not given him any reason to, as of yet anyhow.

And Webber chirped and nodded their head, had said that WX78 had told them the same thing awhile ago. The only one of their party who was still unsure was the former Nightmare King, who had crossed his arms and grumbled and complained, shadow clone hovering by his shoulder. 

They were out here for a gathering run, and including the doppelganger the four of them had already gotten a decent amount of grass and twigs and even logs. This biome filled with beehives looked promising, and snatching up a few butterflies along the way made for a satisfying venture.

Or would at least make it look like they had been hard at work all day when they got back to camp. Wilson was not particularly fond of being judged by how much work he put into the base and how helpful he was, but to be honest it was easier when there were so many hands at task. While he now had the time for his own hobbies, that also meant he couldn't sit at camp all day fiddling with wires and odd batteries. 

Living with so many people implied working with them on a consistent basis, which he was starting to figure out now. Large camps were not so daunting once he got to know the other survivors better.

But he still had a good bit to learn, especially on who he could trust absolutely and who he should be extra careful about.

WX78 had told the truth about the excess honey; they had not mentioned the behemoth killer bee, not even once.

A few wacks to the hive had made the large thing shudder, shake and tip this way and that, before massive legs thrust themselves out from the top, dripping in glistening honey before the rest of the shining creature pulled itself out and into the open air, an exhaling shriek of a hiss as those mandibles opened up and huge wings unfurled. Its infernal buzzing was somehow worse than the Dragonflies, the scaly creature ten times bigger but not nearly as haunting.

And not nearly as new; Wilson has never set eyes on something like this before, and was for once totally caught off guard. He wasn't the only one, with Webber letting out their own shriek of surprise as they skittered back and Maxwell cursing as he stumbled to avoid the flung honey and melted wax.

The new giant had stretched itself, finally freeing from the ground with one heavy wiggle, and out shot a massive stinger from the end, the entire framework of its hive shell abdomen oozing honey from the inside, thicker waxy buildup dribbling down in thick glops about the grass. All around them the lazy buzz of the other hives suddenly seemed to grow louder, small elephantine bees crawling their way up from nearby flowers and the insides of their homes, and with a sudden straining heave, rising in the air a little higher, the giant rattled a hissing exhale as much larger bees, heavy with thick waxy exteriors almost similar to armors, crawled their way out from the Queen Bees interior.

It was both equal amounts awe striking and horrifying, but Wilson was just mostly shocked. This world was ever changing now, and he was going to have to get used to it eventually.

And then someone had grabbed him by the arm and dragged him back as those bees started swarming, their Queen rising a few inches higher and clacking hisses in almost smarmy satisfaction.

How a bee monstrosity could look satisfied was beyond him, but a fight with a giant, even a new one, was something Wilson could handle.

And the other two had taken their weapons out, Webber with an old tentacle spiked thick at one end, Maxwell summoning a shadowy sword as his doppelganger did the same, and with that Wilson pulled out the spear strapped to his backpack, tossing the pack away from the fight as he prepared himself.

The battle itself was a difficult one. 

The wax on the grass slowed their movements, sometimes even slippery enough to trip Wilson up, but cutting down the bigger bees and swinging cuts through the swarm just took a bit of trial and error. It was the Queen Bee herself that caused more trouble, but the three of them were doing well all things considering.

Usually a first time encounter with a giant ended bad, at least in Wilson's experience, but learning an enemy on the fly was getting easier with time. Even coordinated attacks, distracting the monster as Webber darted behind to whip the tentacle spider across the giants back, attempting to shred her wings as she shrieked and howled with rage, or pairing in an assault with Maxwell's dark sword, the doppelganger taking the rest of the hives attention for a few precious seconds allowing a few of the Queens legs to be severed, made the actual fight last a shorter amount of time than it would have with just Wilson at the ready.

But new foes always had a trick up their sleeve, and those were harder to prepare for.

A sudden shriek and whipping of air as the Queen Bee's wings sped up, buzzing louder and louder, and all Wilson could do was try to keep the wax heavy bees off him, slipping on the honeyed ground and jabbing the insects with his spear the best as he could. The winds heaved with the behemoth's influence, and the hive was truly swarming now, a few nipping stings scraping at his arms and trying to grab a hold to his back before he shook them off, spear wet and foul with insect blood and honey.

For a split second, a moment where the bees cleared and Wilson had stumbled back as he swatted one wax armoured bee out of the way, there was the warbling clicking screech of the Queen Bee, sudden giant mandibles and overlarge jagged limbs, glistening chitin and bristles and the heavy whipping from her massive wings as her compound eyes focused to him, locked on and almost, almost as if looking deep to his core as he stared back at her, the rising hum of the hive as she seemed to tense.

And then Wilson was tumbling to the side, a sudden rush of wind and bees and swarm as he tripped into gooey wax and honey, almost fumbled his spear before more of the wax laden guardians bumbled at him, and for a split second he recognized that he had been _pushed_ out of the way but the hive didn't allow him another moments thought, swarming with even more numbers and energy than before.

He couldn't see the giant, not until Webber was suddenly there whipping bees out of the way, smacking them to the ground, bristled up and blank eyes wide, mandibles twitching and fur gunked up with sticky honey right before they chittered a stammered sound and suddenly pointed behind him.

Which was why when Wilson turned around he got the sudden view of the Queen Bee bundling up the struggling former Nightmare King and stabbing her honey slick stinger near right through him. The doppelganger shadow was near frantically trying to slash at her, but her wings beat fast and she had risen a little too far off the ground.

For a second, the silhouette of the scene stuck Wilsons breath in his throat.

Then the giant dropped her limp target back to the ground, giant stinger sliding out and now not just coated in oozing honey, darker red and sliding chunks of gore as she turned her attention to the shadow clone, the hive intensifying its attack as she screeched a victory cry.

Webber shrieked back, snarling and looking near feral as they rose up their extra limbs, shaking and standing tip toe, and it was enough to break Wilson out of his silencing shock, catching the Queens outraged attention.

And enough to give him an idea.

Before Webber could rush at the creature Wilson had them by the shoulder, dragged them back as they hissed, and then spun them around as he hurriedly told them his plan. Behind them all, trying to not catch the giants distracted attention, he could see the shadow clone, limping and wobbling but still on its feet as it started to drag its creator out of the fight.

It didn't sit well that Wilson couldn't go over, couldn't help immediately, and he hoped that somehow that shadow knew first aid. He already knew there wasn't much that could be done, but he shoved that Knowledge out of the way and focused on the approaching Queen Bee.

Then he and Webber sprinted off in opposite directions, with him drawing the giants attention with a few well yelled shouts and throwing his hands in the air. The other bees followed her lead, slow wax laden bees right behind, and with that it became a wild goose chase as he waited for Webber to come back.

He was starting to flag by the end of it, lungs burning as the bees started to catch up, before the battlecries of spiders rang out and he could finally stumble back as Webber appeared over the hill with an army. No Spider Queen to combat the giant, but the ground became littered with bees and spiders and the Queen Bee herself looked worse for wear now.

Wilson took a last glance over the flailing chaos of chitinous legs, arachnid and insect and hissing, buzzing, the briefest glimpse of Webber as they blinked all their eyes at him and gave a modified spider thumbs up, spider grin on their face before they turned back to tear the wings off a waxy bee, and then he was jogging back the way he had came.

Later he could think about the danger of leaving a child, even a spidey one, to fight a giant on its last legs; right now he really needed to know if the other of their party was dead or not. That stinger was huge, and following the trail of honey and wax back he could see where it had dripped blood everywhere, as well as more unidentifiable gore he'd rather not think too much of, a very unsettling sight as he left the buzzing behind.

The hives about him now were calm, only the lowest of drones staying behind, but they barely even glanced at him as he hurried by. The carnage stayed, an oozing honeycomb center left where the giant had pulled itself from, crumbling a bit in one corner and showing the rest of it went much, much deeper than it appeared, but he didn't have the time to examine it further.

The honey trail ended, but the blood was still pasted in a streak, shallow splashed footprints from what he assumed to have been the shadow, and Wilson quickly followed it back to the forest fringing the bee meadow.

A last loud, horrible shrieking cry rang through the air from behind him when he finally spotted where the blood went, a low rumble in the ground and through his feet, and Wilson had the know how to understand when a giant died nearby. Webber and their spiders must have won out, and he severely hoped the kid wasn't injured. He'd never forgive himself if he had abandoned the child just to find a corpse.

At the end of it, leaning against a tree as the shadow doppelganger wobbled and shook on its knees, looking just about ready to dissolve, Wilson found Maxwell very much alive and still breathing.

His suit jacket was off and pressed to his chest, but little else. The shadow must not know first aid then, and Wilson filed that back in his mind. 

Passing the shadow, only the twitch of its head in his direction, the vaguest of acknowledgment before it heaved a last shudder and burst into steaming smokey shadows and gelatin staining fuel, not even enough to gather later, Wilson crouched down to assess the damage.

The other man had his eyes closed, breathing shallow and strained, but his hands were attempting to put pressure over the wound and blood was already seeping through the fabric of the jacket itself. 

"I'm surprised that didn't kill you instantly."

Maxwell's dark eyes opened up a bit at his voice, not quite squinted but very unfocused as Wilson carefully removed his gloved hands from the wound. Blood stained them as well, wax hardening in splashes about his sleeves, but setting his hands aside to the grass Wilson now had more access to the injury itself.

"It...takes more than...that...to kill me."

His breath was labored, strained with a rattle in the back that weakened in the exhale, and the proceeding inhale was much, much more tense. Closing his eyes once again, and Wilson was already frowning as he carefully tried to remove the bloodied coat.

The near instant he did there was a gush of blood, a rattling wheeze from the other man that sounded hoarse, and Wilson got a glimpse of the wound for a brief moment before he covered it back again, thinking hard.

"Did it pierce through?"

"I...don't know...pal-" 

That last word came up with a sudden rugged cough, more like a gag that shook the other man's thin frame, only a split second before he relaxed back down with blood leaking from his lips, and Wilson had a careful hold to his shoulders to keep him from moving too much. Shifting him was an incredibly bad idea, but from a quick look over it didn't look as if blood was soaking through from his back. The stinger might not have plunged straight through to the other side, and the wound had not opened a visible hole right through the back, at least not from what he could see, or more like hope.

Right now, it really was the most he could hope for.

Having emptied the wound of fluid buildup for that single moment seemed to have eased Maxwell's breathing a bit, the puncture large and even bone breaking, knowing he had seen fractured lower ribs and the ghastliness of organ gore. 

Wilson chewed on his bottom lip, palms pressed firmly to the makeshift bandage blockade, and tried to get his already exhausted mind to think of something.

There was a low clicking sound, approaching footsteps through the grass, and then a high little chirp of twitter spidery noise, and Wilson did not have to look back to know it was Webber.

"The big bee's dead, Mister Wilson sir! Our friends are eating the rest of 'em right now."

The vague image of a spider popping a whole elephantine bee into its mouth rose up in his mind, but Wilson hurriedly shook it off, a glance back to Maxwell's face, the man's eyes closed and wrinkled up into a pained snarl as he finally figured out what he could do.

"...Is Mister Maxwell alright-"

"Webber, can you do me a favor?" He hadn't meant to interrupt, but Wilson glanced back to the spider child, meeting their many wide blank sets of eyes. "Can you fetch me my backpack, it's out in the grass somewhere, as well as silk? As much as you can get."

Webber was already nodding, backing up with their arms drawn close to their chest, their eyes flashing as they seemed to look at Maxwell and then to him, nervous, but their clicking voice was unhesitant.

"Okay, Mister Wilson sir, okay!"

"Thank you, and please hurry." With that Webber was off, skittering away as Wilson heaved a sigh, a slight shake of his head. Turning back he was a little surprised to see the old man had opened his eyes again, was watching him, still breathing shallow but not quite as strained just yet.

"...Sir….?" 

The question was more of an exhale, but Wilson answered back as he carefully got into a more stable, comfortable position, kneeling with his clawed hands still keeping pressure to the wound. 

"I've told them it's just Wilson, but they seem to be having a bit of trouble still. At least they stopped calling me by my last name."

There was a rattled laugh, or exhaled laugh really, an attempt that didn't sound too genuine as the old man's eyes closed up once more. 

A moment of silence passed, not quite comfortable at all as Wilson tried to not grimace at the feeling of blood soaking against his hands, but then Maxwell cleared his throat with a bit of effort, nearly choking on it before his words got through.

"I have...an effi...effigy…back at camp."

"Then it would be better if you didn't waste it." Wilson shifted the jacket, doing his best to try and keep everything covered even as blood soaked through more fully, more dangerously, and it wasn't quite a chest wound but a bit lower, the older man's abdomen but reaching close enough to the lower ribs. For all of Maxwell's rough breathing that stinger might have even clipped his diaphragm, especially with having glimpsed those broken lower ribs, and Wilson had no idea if that had even deposited poison or not. 

...A part of him was hoping that, if the Queen Bee was indeed venomous, than it was similar enough to the spiders and their bites. As he knew very well, Spider Queens numbed their prey, paralyzed them in larger doses, and if this was the case then the both of them would have an easier time.

"Effigies cost enough as it is, and if you don't need to use one then all the better."

Maxwell huffed at him, though it seemed more like a rattling wheeze as the old man closed his eyes, breathing ragged and rough. The sound was not a good one, though Wilson grit his jaw and tried to convince himself that the fact that he was even breathing at all in the first place was good enough.

"Pal...think you should….should know-"

He was interrupted by a sudden coughing fit, Wilsom hurriedly pressing one hand to his bony shoulder and keeping him still, Maxwell shakily raising his hands before seeming to lose the strength and letting them fall back to his sides, spitting up blood as he gagged and finally swallowed hard. His thin frame trembled under Wilsons palms, breathing now even more labored and gargled sounding, but there was something a bit off-

"I can't...feel my...l-legs…"

Maxwells voice actually wobbled for a second, his eyes shut tight and face curled in a pained snarl, rasping for breath, and Wilson blinked, stared at him for a moment as the words processed in his mind.

"...What do you mean-"

"Mister Wilson sir! Mister Wilson! Sir!" 

A twittering whistle interrupted him, clicking and clacking and light footsteps as Wilson glanced back to see Webber racing through the grass and avoiding pools of cooling wax and shadowy splatters of fuel and blood, lugging his pack and holding a bundle of thick spider silk in their arms, fur all bristled up and eight white eyes wide.

"We got you your backpack, and there was a bunch of silk left over from our spider friends, they were okay with us taking some, and-"

They skidded to a halt, chirping voice dying in their throat as they blinked all their eyes in pairs, extra limbs waving and twitching as their mandibles curled, fur somehow puffing up even more as they churred a low, worried sound. Wilson couldn't quite get rid of his frown as their eyes darted to him keeping pressure on Maxwell's injury, but it was near enough a grimace as he made himself start talking, an answer back as the child seemed to realize the gravity of the situation.

"T-thank you, Webber." He had to clear his throat, carefully adjust as he held out his hand and let the spider child give over his pack, their spidery limbs twitching and curling close as their eyes seemed to get wider. "This'll help a lot."

He set the pack aside, waited for them to lower the silk bundle down at his side as they twittered low and stared, but a quick glance showed Maxwell hadn't even opened his eyes, wasn't acknowledging them at all.

"The next thing I want you to do is go back to camp, alright?" Webber blinked at him, all those eyes in synced pairs, arachnid face curled into a spidery expression he still didn't know how to read as of yet. "Get some help, and someone who could gather up everything we had dropped, maybe Woodie or Wolfgang?"

Webber clicked at him, mandibles twitching and rearranging in their spider face, before they tilted their head towards Maxwell.

"Will...will Mister Maxwell be okay?"

They sounded quiet, quieter than he's ever actually heard them as of yet, white spider eyes and arachnid face hiding what little Wilson could read, but he finally was able to put on a wobbly fake smile, strain in his voice as he pushed himself.

There was no reason to subject such a small child, even as spider like as they were, to more death than they've already seen.

"Yeah, he'll be fine, Webber, I'll fix, I'll fix him up." He could see them eyeing the wound, the blood pooling in the grass about them both, and he knew some of it was soaking his trousers, was coated on his claws now, but Wilson kept it up. "I know it, uh, looks bad, but it's fine, Webber, it's fine."

For a moment they were silent, arms curled close and extra limbs curled even closer, bristles raised and looking unsure and wide eyed, but then there was a ragged cough and Wilson had to turn to keep Maxwell in place as the old man shifted, pushed his hands in the blood soaked grass as he tried to raise himself up a bit. He was paler than before, dangerously so, and Wilson couldn't hold much more of the false act up as those dark eyes squinted open and looked up at the spider child.

"Don't...worry yourself, kid…" Maxwell's face twitched, that snarl suddenly falling away to a tight grin, thin and strained but angled up towards Webber, who twittered low in their throat as their limbs twitched and waved, perking up as the old man spoke. "I...I'm in...good hands…"

Wilson could feel him trembling under his palms, a firm hold to keep Maxwell from moving _too_ much, but after a moment of tense silence his words seemed to get through and Webber twittered, whistled as their limbs rose up high.

"Alrighty, Mister Maxwell! We'll go get help, and then we can all go back to camp together!"

They churred, many eyes blinking together and in pairs as they clicked and clacked in satisfaction, trust, before spinning around on their claws and darting off, skittering and hopping out and away into the nearby forest, back towards far away camp.

Wilson waited a few seconds. watched them as they finally passed a few trees and disappeared, before a shudder and gagging gasp caught his attention and he hurriedly helped Maxwell slide back down, keeping him upright even as the man choked on a cough and finally spat up more blood, chest heaving for air.

His claws were more hesitant now, anxiety rising thick in his chest and worry dragging at his face, and the Knowledge now was so thick on his tongue that a part of him wanted to spit it out.

Instead Wilson swallowed it, heavy and sliding like a boulder to sit in his belly, and forced himself to breath calm. The bee stings on his arms and back were starting to burn and tingle now as the numbing poison wore off but those were not life threatening, he could tend to them later.

"Are...are you sure your legs are...?"

It was a stupid question, his voice unnaturally soft for the moment, but the old man bared his too sharp teeth, eyes still shut tight and wheezing in and near gasping out each and every breath as he answered back with a low stuttered snarl.

"Of...co-course I'm….I'm sure, pal." Those pitch black eyes squinted open for only a second, swirling almost hazily before Maxwell actually seemed to finally focus on him, and his voice had started sharp and snappish but wobbled as he rattled an exhale, faded a bit into a hoarse puff of air. "I...would not be...be l-lying here…otherwise…"

Wilsons gaze drifted down, to the older man's outstretched legs, trousers streaked with drying, crystalized honey and thick wax, darker blood stains, limp and having not so much as twitched the entire time. For a second he did graze his claws over one knee, just to check, but Maxwell had his eyes closed once more and did not react in the slightest.

The fall from the giants grip couldn't have done that right? Or, perhaps the angle of that goring, or from the looks of it evisceration, that stinger was huge and built thick, it could have just severed right through-

A grimace settled on his face as Wilson shook his head, heaved a strained breath, but he couldn't waste time like this and instead turned to dig through his backpack.

There wasn't much in there, having been packed with twigs and grasses and chunks of logs, pieces of flint and rock, and only a singular salve, no poultice. He hadn't packed up for any emergency giant fighting, after all.

A near nervous chuckle almost left him as Wilson glanced back to the battlefield; they had near enough honey to last days, but no good enough bandaging, and he didn't think the gunked up stuff in the grass was sterile enough to be safe anyway.

Then again, Wilson already knew it was pointless.

That didn't stop him from taking the silk bundle in hand, unwrapping it as he evened out his own breathes, determined scowl settling on his face.

He could at the very least _try_ to help.

Maxwell only squinted his eyes open for a moment, glazed and unfocused before shutting once more as Wilson gingerly peeled away the now very ruined suit jacket. Barring the tears from bee stings and bites, the amount of blood soaked through would warrant it to a good burning later on.

The flow was slower now, not built up like earlier, but each rise and fall from the older mans chest just pushed out more and, for a moment, Wilson's claws tightened and his gut twisted and turned at the sight.

It's not like he hasn't seen so much more blood and gore and violence than he ever normally should, but it compounded when said bloody mess was still breathing, still alive.

There was a tickling in the back of his brain, Knowledge licking through his thoughts, but gritting his jaw Wilson got to work.

Shock was probably setting in, or had already set in with how pale Maxwell was now, but Wilson focused himself on wrapping up and covering as much of the gaping hole as he could, not daring to remove any leftover undershirts, torn as they were, and instead focusing on just keeping everything together.

Considering how Maxwell was seated, the tree trunk as his only stable anchor keeping him up, trying to wrap thick swathes of silk, already soaking through with crimson clotted blood, was a much harder venture. It was especially bad when Wilson carefully tried to lean, handle the old mans body to allow that space and instead the silence was broken by an ungodly mixture of cracking, scraping bone and jostling flesh and Wilson suddenly felt very, very sick as Maxwell actually gasped out a strangled sound, going stiff before collapsing back against the tree as Wilson jerked his hands away.

Swallowing the urge to gag, this was definitely more visceral than when he had to take care of himself in such states, at least then his focus was dizzy with pain and he didn't truly _hear_ every little detail, it was pretty evident to Wilson by now that the old man had, indeed, been stabbed straight through, and almost near cut in half. 

If it had been a little higher up it would have killed him instantly, and judging from the choked gasps and wheezes that might have been a better outcome.

That stinger had torn out more than he had anticipated, now an explanation for all that gore mixed with the honey and wax out near the hives, but Wilson hardened himself, squished down the urge to stumble back and heave up the nausea setting in, possibly caused more by bee venom than anything else. This was the least he could do, because at this point it was clear that effigy was going to get used.

After finally, finally getting the silk to paste on, finally thick enough to not spot with blood, now barely jostling the older man and his very much shattered spine, Wilson scraped his claws in the grass and shivered at the feel of blood gritting to his skin, jaw tight and the silence between them only interrupted by the old mans rattling breaths, strained and gasped, in, out.

It wasn't a nice sound, Wilson decided, and Knowledge tickled and faint half memories rose to the forefront of his brain but he shoved them back.

He hardly remembered his time on the Throne, and this was not the time for it.

Turning to his pack, wiping excess sticky silk from his claws and trying to ignore the crimson that was now staining his bone talons, would stain for awhile as he knew very well, Wilson pulled out the salve, careful to not spill or drop it as he set it aside.

And then paused, staring as his gaze landed on one of the things he must have missed when looking through the bag the first time. 

After a moment, scraping his claws in rhythmic, quiet motions, Wilson carefully pulled out the razor he knew he had set in the pack earlier this morning.

It had been if their small group had gotten peckish during their scavenging and they wanted to catch a rabbit or bird. A very simple explanation for its presence, but right now its blade somehow looked sharper than normal.

For a few more moments he held it in his hands, internally conflicted, before there was the sound of someone clearing their throat, with perhaps a lot more difficulty than was normal.

Maxwell was staring at him, dark eyes half lidded and looking paler, more corpselike than ever, and by now Wilson could visibly see that the other man was in pain, the pull of his face and haggard breathes, and it was Knowledge and common sense that told him that there wasn't much time left, slow as it was going to be.

The former Nightmare King couldn't survive much, but he always died so damn slowly.

"That would...certainly get th-the...the job done…" The old man's voice even sounded duller, faint and just barely above a hoarse whisper, rough as he blinked and swallowed thick, dark blood drying on his lips as he took a deep, stuttered inhale before rattling it out. "If that...is what you d….decide to do…"

Wilsons claws tightened about the razor, gut twisting and thoughts a bit empty in his head, and his palms felt repulsive, blood stains he'd never get out, and this wasn't the first time he had the old man's blood on his hands and it would certainly not be the last but it sent bile up his throat at the very acknowledgment.

"...Lift your head, please."

Maxwell obediently tilted his head, exposed his neck as Wilsons hand carefully pushed his chin up, shivering at the feeling of more blood but not backing down. He could see when the older man swallowed, the convulsion of his wrinkled throat and the ghastly paleness of his already pale skin, the darker undercurrent of faint veins, and he flicked the razor out, familiarity in the action as he scooted close, leaned forward on his knees and hovering over the former Nightmare King.

It was quiet, only Maxwell's rasping hoarse wheezes, shallow and faintly gargled, and a quick glance down showed that blood was starting to soak through the silk bandaging, seep from the sides Wilson had struggled to so carefully wrap up.

There was only the faintest flinch when Wilson pressed the razor to the old man's throat. From what little he remembered, bad timelines all by his lonesome, hunted by shadows and feeling Them crawl Their way up his arms and settle all too comfy under his skin, it was an unfortunate but true experience that he knew exactly which way would hurt the most, and which would kill the quickest.

Experimenting on some of the local fauna in his early days, pigs and walrus and rabbit, had taught him a few things as well. Dissections in the Constant rose up far too many questions, but they answered just as many more.

For a moment, after tilting his hand and carefully, lightly pressing the razor to the spot that was just right, enough to hopefully shock into unconsciousness and then death in under a minute, it should be quick, especially since Maxwell has already lost so much blood anyhow, Wilson took a steadying breath.

And then another, counted to ten, did it again when he found himself hesitating, frozen as he breathed, in, out.

Maxwell waited, eyes closed, mouth closed too, bloody lips shut tight as he breathed through his nose, rattling wheezes and the faint movement of his chest rising, falling, stuttering, blade pressed to his throat and ever so patient, and Wilson-

-pulled back abruptly, whistling out a strained exhale as he settled backwards into the grass, unfolded his knees from under him. He dropped the razor away from him, and only then realized that his arms, his hands were shaking.

He's killed Maxwell before, both on and off the Throne. That he knew, Knowledge settled inside himself, content and purring and nauseatingly sickening, so this should have been easy.

If it had been anyone else, even one of the children, Wilson knew he would do it; he would have _had_ to. He couldn't willfully let any of the people he cared about suffer, not for any longer than they had to, and he's been in similar situations before; he knew he could count on them making the same choice for himself.

If he was dying, he'd rather not be in pain for who knows how long. Wilson would rather have all that suffering cut short and be pulling himself out of an effigy or coming too on a touchstone instead.

He'd...he'd not want to end up like how Maxwell was right now.

So why was it, as his hands trembled minutely and he curled his claws into prickling his blood stained palms, that he hadn't gone through with it here?

"I….I can't." 

It was the only thing he could think of to say, right now, at this moment, and Maxwell was still for a few seconds before dropping down his head, still heaving for breath, eyes still tightly shut. He didn't say anything, might not have the breath for it left, Knowledge swirling unbidden in Wilson's mind, and Wilson curled his arms about his chest, clasped his arms and scraped his claws together as he forced himself to stop trembling, gritting his teeth.

The silence between them now felt different, not tense but something else, and Wilson didn't look at the other man as he bit his tongue, forcing himself to speak up once again.

"Am I...is this cruel, of me?" He already knew the answer, of course he was being cruel, what other answer was there for not easing someone else's suffering? But there was a bitter sting, a sour tang in his throat, the back of his brain, and memory curdled his gut and Wilson knew explicitly well what suffering was like.

He's been tortured before, and he knew exactly who had done it, knew very well, but his mind just wouldn't let him remember enough, never enough. Wilson knew what suffering was, and faintly that cruel seed from the Throne pulsed and he had to viciously push away the sense of satisfaction that was threatening to lap at his consciousness.

That sort of thing was, was _wrong_ , and Wilson was not like that, he wasn't that sort of person.

He, he _wasn't cruel_ , but it soured and he knew what he was doing _was_ cruel.

An odd sound broke him from his spiraling thoughts, a terribly wet gargled sound, and Wilson blinked and stared as Maxwell started to laugh.

It only lasted a moment, spitting blood as the mans face twisted into a crooked grin, sharp blood stained teeth bared and ghastly in near to stuttered cackling, before that devolved into sudden choking coughs and Wilson hesitated only a moment before he rose his hands and helped the old man straighten up from how he had been sliding down to his left, faint scraping bone and fleshy gore that made Wilson internally shudder as he waited out the fit the older man had gotten into. Blood streaked down against the tree trunk, testament to the silk as it was bled through, not much help or use anymore.

 _A waste of silk_ , Knowledge thick in the back of his mouth, heady behind his eyes, but Wilson stubbornly waited for the coughs to subside, more blood down the old man's chin and draining down his throat, swallowing thick and face contorted once more into pain.

But his words still wheezed out, faint and hoarse, whisper rough from a ripped up, unslit throat.

"I...I'd call it...a different...word…"

There was a moment of silence, listening as Maxwell gasped for air now, more strained, more under pressure as his sharp toothed mouth half opened, whistling in great gulps of air and wavering sputtering exhales, before Wilson's face screwed up as he unhooked his claws from the firm hold he had on the man's shoulders, pulling away as he spoke.

"And what would you call it then?"

The question was answered with another upturned smirk from the older man, laying his head back against the tree as he closed his dark glazed eyes, whistling in breathes as the silk bandaging spotted darker, stains spreading as he grew ever weaker.

"...Fair…" Maxwell didn't even open his eyes, crooked smile still on his face, looking strained, pain lacing his features even as he pulled the near satisfactory look off instead. "I'd...call it f-fair...Wilson…"

Wilson sat there, conflicted, a foul bile on his tongue and belly twisting painfully, even as his subconscious hummed in satisfaction. Internally this translated into feeling near violently sick, and he wavered, fought off the urge to heave into a bush somewhere as he took a few steadying breathes, counting to ten, twenty, thirty, hell even fifty if he had to!

This whole situation didn't sit right on him, and for a moment his eyes landed on the cast aside razor once more before he tore his gaze away, frown pulling and tugging harshly at his face.

He couldn't do that, he knew now. He, he just _can't_ , a horrid sense of revulsion and loathing and even _pain_ settling to his chest as he just barely thought of it, and it _was_ cruel of him to be so merciless, to make the old man suffer like he was.

Wilson, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms about them, chin on his knees as he stared into space, both sitting in the silence between them, only ever interrupted by the ever growing death rattle, and it was quiet.

"...D-does it…" 

Wilson looked up, watched as Maxwell heaved for breath, and now his hands were moving, faint twitches in the blood soaked earth, raking his gloved fingers deep as he shuddered in another breath.

"...Does it al-always….feel this w...way...?"

Wilson blinked, confused, his clothes sticky with wax and honey and blood not his own, scraping his claws quietly together in his own self soothing motions, his mind blank and yet fluttering thick with too much sound, too much empty thought, heady Knowledge, and it was the oddest of things to slog through the chaotic dissociation setting in just to speak with his own unwavering, still very much alive voice.

"What do you mean?"

There was fresh blood coming up every time the old man spoke, dark and wet and staining his jagged teeth, his hands tightening into fists in the bloody earth, each breath now heaved, haggardly forced in, out, enough to almost feel ghost pain in Wilson's own chest, but Maxwell still had the strength, the will to talk as a certain feeling started to darken the air.

"H-has...has it al…always been l-like….like this…?" There was a twitch in his shoulders, a faint movement from one arm as if to gesture, but the old man didn't have the strength left for even that. "Ha….has d-death always...felt like...th-this…?"

He was slurring, Wilson realized, the older man taking great gasping heaves, shallow now, fast and strained and pressurized.

"It...it's….rather c-cold…"

That was hushed, near whispered, exhaled words that made the man shudder, struggle for breath, stiffen up and tremble with a pained look twisting his face, eyes still shut tight, and the silk wrapping had done nothing, as Wilson had known it would.

It twisted in his gut, painfully knowing what that felt like, he's died too much to _not_ remember what each and every death felt like, he knew exactly what was going on and it settled bad and sickly in his chest as he watched nearby.

It only took a moment, half second decision before Wilson got to his knees and scooted himself closer, ignoring the blood, the soaked grass and dirt, settling down besides the shaking man and then reaching with only a moment of hesitation to hold the old man's hand.

That wheezing breath flinched, intensified as Wilson clasped his claws around the gloved hand he now held, firm and steady, and he didn't look at Maxwell but their shoulders were pressed together, another force as the old man leaned heavy against him, shaking. Maxwell was cold, not even a trace of minuscule warmth against his side, but Wilson held his trembling hand and didn't let go.

"...It's never nice, dying alone."

It was his only explanation, his only way to convey some sort of feeling connecting them right now, perhaps an apology of some sort, but whatever it was his chest ached as he listened to those gasping wheezes, gargled and stuttering, shallow and fast and haunting, so very haunting, and he did not let Maxwell's weak hand go.

It didn't take much longer than that, a last glance to see Maxwell's eyes tightly shut, head back and shuddering as his face twisted into snarls of agony, before he looked away, and Wilson held out when he finally felt the sudden loss of strength and weight collapse against him, more blood staining his dirtied clothing.

Faintly the old mans chest shifted, twitched and dragged, unconscious and seeping life out of him, and Wilson idly rubbed his clawed thumb over those limp knuckles and listened as that last breath finally tipped, wobbled, and slid through into silence.

After a moment, two moments, and Wilson finally let out a pressurized exhale from his tight lungs, claws tightening for a mere moment over the hand of the once living, the laden weight of a corpse leaned against him, head listless against his shoulder and dead body limp and lifeless in the grass.

There was, movement maybe, faintest of silent sound, faintest of flashing faded light, and Wilson blinked and turned his head slightly, gaze upwards as he watched the slightest traces of, of…

Not a ghost, no, ghosts did not exist, the Constant held no _ghosts_ , only fragments, forgotten figments of the imagination, and Wilson has seen so many now, passing from collapsed ripped apart bodies or rising high over freshly disturbed graves, and this was no different.

The ghastly shade did not waste time hesitating, hovering, and only seemed to rise in a twist pointed towards far away camp before dissipating before Wilsons very eyes, and at least he knew now the effigy was going to be used.

Well, he knew from the beginning, but still. Wilson was so used to death, but only his own. The others, when they passed, felt different from when he was the one dying, or perhaps he was just a bit biased.

It didn't matter, Wilson thought to himself, another whistling exhale, pressure easing and weight falling from his shoulders, even with a corpse now semi draped against his side.

He did not look to the bodies face, did not want to look, and kept his gaze to the dirt as he untangled and carefully, respectfully shifted the limp body back against the tree once more. Scooting away, gaze drifting to the lone razor and the forgotten salve, Wilson slowly, as if in fog, or clouded molasses, picked each up and set them back into his backpack, which he then stood up with and swung to settle to his shoulders, a comforting weight now to distract himself, pinpricks of those far away bee stings only faintly still acknowledged.

Still, he couldn't help it, the briefest of glances, the slowest of looks, and the sight did not ease a single thing inside himself, not at all.

Bloody and pale and face finally relaxed, eyes still closed though not so tightly, head tipped down and body sprawled with the back to the tree trunk, and for a second something withered in his chest and Wilson took a few extra steps forward just to bend down, take up those dirty sleeved wrists, and gently lay them crossed over each other in the corpses lap.

It wasn't something he needed to do, not something useful or needed or anything of the sort. There was no reason for it, arranging the dead respectfully.

But Wilson did it anyway.

"Sometimes you…" Wilson paused, worried his lower lip between his teeth for a moment, claws scraping together for a sense of ease as his gaze flickered to the face of death and then darted away. "Sometimes it can be hard to hate you."

Words at a bad graveside, and a painfully long one at that. Those death throes could have been much shorter, had Wilson tightened his grip on the razor and not clasped empty handed and resentful.

He _was_ cruel, wasn't he? Or, perhaps, maybe he was only cruel to the former Nightmare King.

_Cruel, only to be kind._

And that was a tried true, justified reason, Knowledge singing in his head and sounding more and more like Them, and with that Wilson straightened up and spun on his heel, started his slow, slightly limping way back to the messy, empty battlefield, then even farther to where the giants own corpse would have fallen.

He'd see Maxwell back at camp, and that was something Wilson was at least assured of in knowing.

***

In all his time living in the Constant, eternal and hellish and struggling to survive each and every day, Wilson so far has seen some very nightmarish creations.

The Deerclops comes to mind first, followed by Dragonfly, Moose Goose, and Bearger, but those beasts were only the largest he's seen, and fought, so far. Treeguards, Spider Queens, wereboars and the actual manifestation of night terrors were smaller, but even more numerous, more prevalent throughout the Constants world.

After the change in rulership, however, he was starting to find a whole lot more nightmare fodder being added to the mix.

The children had been the ones to get a hold of the antler, a no eyed deers shedding from early winter, but Wilson had been the one to stick the blasted thing into the lock, giant bulging sack larger than himself, near large enough to brush the leafless birchnut branches, a huge thing coiled with gold and rusted iron chains. His mind was whirling with what could possibly be inside, and unfortunately he had brushed off the concerns that were raised to him about _what_ , exactly, could have left the sack here to begin with.

As he's grown to learn, the former Nightmare King was a largely paranoid man, and usually unnecessarily so. Maxwell being irritable and complaining the whole trip had put a damper on the general festive air Wilson was trying to give to the children, so if Wilson brushed the old man's snide paranoid warnings aside then he had done so with the utmost surety in the situation.

None of them had known what was coming once the antler shattered into fragments in his hands, Webber twittering and then jerking up, fur bristled and extra limbs waving as they all heard the heavy footsteps. Opposite was Wendy's emotionless face, only the tilt of her head giving her away, and up Wilson had hauled himself, already taking the spear out from where it was strapped to his pack. Maxwell had drawn his nightmare sword, the shadowy thing whispering low and high and fast gibberish, giving away just how worn out it was, and Wilson was already about to command the children to leave, quickly, when the sacks owner finally passed through the thick trees out into the open.

The antlers first, huge twisted things sprouting thorns and spiraled colors, and then the bristled hide, thick red fur as it ambled forward with every step, twin no eyed deer trotting by its sides.

The first comparison to rise in Wilsons mind was 'Krampus', horrid giggling imps that he's had to handle before, usually after a spat of murdering droves of butterflies or one too many birds and rabbits for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, but this thing was much, much larger. Not giant sized, no, but it towered close to the treetops, antlers grazing the barren branches, and with each step the ground seemed to minutely shake, not due to weight, but more as if even the earth was afraid of what walked upon it, snow bunched up between thick cloven hooves, dragging long fur and heavy mane and hackles from its broad back.

The chains, tightly wound around its chest, shoulders and low to its waist and even thighs, dragging low in the snow in rusted loops and gold curls, clattered against each other with each of its plodding steps.

This wasn't what had really set off the red flags, what differentiated the monster from every other Krampus out there; their small party had stared, struck with shock, as the creature raised its hands, brushed giant butcher talons through the snow as its nostrils flared and snout arched, and its lips peeled back, strained the thread sewing that kept its mouth closed tight, tusks pulling as it leaned forward and took a long, deep sniff of the air. The no eyed deer slowed to a stop, ears twisting and swerving around, listening in the snow thick silence.

The gap of its center face, where eyes, or perhaps one eye, had once been was a tangled mess of sewn together thread and bubbling scar tissue, entire snout thick with thinning fur and old wounds. Its tattered ears rose, twitched about as it heaved foggy breath from the small gap that its jaws were allowed, heavy lock and gold twisted chains swinging as it dug its claws through the snow, bent and sniffed and snorted, massive head turning this way and that, everything silent, still, the snow laden forest holding its breath.

And then a twig and crackling snow snapped right behind Wilson, Webbers limbs curled close and mandibles twitching in their spidery mouth, many eyes blown wide and fur puffed up, looking horrified as the giant red furred monster jerked its head about, to stare blindly right in their direction.

It was common sense, understanding this thing was blind. Wilson only had to give Maxwell a quick look, eyes narrowed and a hardened scowl on his face, a sharp glance to the children as Wendy shuffled slowly to Webbers shaking side, and the older man hesitated only a fraction of a second before he nodded.

At the time, Wilson had thought he could handle it, give everyone enough time to get away, or at least figure out what to do. He's never truly fought a blinded creature before, and not something this grotesque, something that obviously had been interfered with, _who in all of the Constants infinite planes would be twisted enough to sew a creature's face closed-?_

Monster it may be, but that didn't mean torturing the thing was _right_. Holding his spear firmly, readying himself as he breathed even, watching as the creature stumbled forward with heavy steps, sniffing the air and waving its claws in its blindness, Wilson prepared himself for what he thought would be a quick fight.

If he got it to fall, got onto its back, a quick jab to its neck should be enough to end it. It was no giant, no Deerclops, so he would deal with it like he dealt with overlarge treeguards or burly wereboars; methodically, at a steady pace, and taking no chances.

While Maxwell attempted to steer the children away from the creature and its deer, Wilson planned to buy some time and distract it enough before he either killed it, or outpaced it and left it behind.

Except, the monster turned out to be much harder to handle than he had originally thought.

It didn't seem to notice he was there at first, ducking its massive waving claws, the deer trotting along merrily as it sniffed and snorted, before suddenly its hackles rose up and it garbled a sound, possibly words, lips pulling and tugging the threads of its grotesque face, as it leaned into a heavy halt, snow churned under its cloven hooves. Just as Wilson readied his spear, eyeing its legs and thanking these few seconds as he tried to pinpoint the exact spot to strike that would weaken it the quickest, the great shaggy creature suddenly shook itself, arms flailing out as its deer bucked back with hops and leaps, and it jerked its sewn together face to dip low and stare directly down upon him.

Usually, Wilson did not freeze up in a fight. He's had that beaten out of him lifetimes ago, and he's learned to always strike first, ask questions later.

Except this time, hot breathe washing over him stinking of sulfur and charcoal and, somehow, thick clouds of cloying tobacco, hints of mint and even chocolate, the stabbed together mess of string and flesh and scars, a gaping hole pulled tightly together in straining skin and wrinkled mange fur, the giant Krampus monstrosity somehow looking down upon him with its ruined face, all Wilson could do was cling to his spear and stare back up, choked and frozen by something that wasn't _quite_ fear, no, not quite.

The creatures fleshy pink nostrils flared, a deep sucking inhale, another blast of an exhale stinking of both bizarre festive and foul repressed memories, and the creatures voice rose deep, twisted, overlayed like the shadows of Them and yet gibbered high like the Krampi of the Constant, an Other being so out of place and torn from its purpose that it sent shocks of near enough misplaced panic to start up and down his spine.

 _Have you been Naughty?_ it asked, jaw barely moving and only the faint traces of a torn tongue peeking from its strung tight lips, leaking drool and saliva and then a sudden burst of pulpy pus, creamy blood staining the snow as its hairy throat convulsed with its words. It snorted, billowing scents that made his mind twist and squeeze and feel dizzier than ever, so badly shocked from what he was used to, too unfamiliar, too unknown, and the deer at the creatures sides burbled up low calls, striding near as those butcher claws dragged through the snow and cupped the ground around him, drawing closer as it breathed him in. _Have you been Nice?_

It was entrancing and nauseating and too much, too sudden, an overpowering presence of red and yellowing string and badly healed scar tissue, pain and confusion and muddled reasoning oozing off its aura, and the colors of the world were already draining, dark shapes darting past as Wilson stood frozen in its near grip, the creature heaving for each and every bloody breathe-

And then one of the deer let out a startled squeal of sound, broke the trance as Wilson's knees shook and he stumbled back as those giant talons clapped together right where he had been standing, with enough force to send his ears ringing and wind to tug harshly at his clothes.

Landing in the snow, shivering as the color started bleeding back in, and the air was still thick and was still hard to choke through but he blurrily looked up to see the giant rear back, tied together maw spitting blood and saliva as something small and dark darted forward and lashed a tentacle spike whip across the monsters furry belly.

One of the deer nearby warbled a wail, limping as it wobbled and bled across the snow, and now close enough he could see a glowing gem inset to its head, flesh and fur swollen tight to it and heavy gold and iron chains and buckles clasped to its hide, and another choking roar, the very ground shuddering underneath him, had Wilson shakily grabbing for his dropped spear and dragging himself upright once more, jaw grit tight and forcing his mind back under his will.

Webber darted past the other deer as it charged them, a quick jerk of its head dipping its antler and flinging snow where it would have pierced them, and his voice rose back up in his throat and Wilson was able to shake himself awake once again.

Fool him once, shame on you. He wasn't going to be caught off guard again, not by another of this new Constants creations.

The fight from there was much more chaotic, the great red beast roaring, near yelling as it swung its claws blindly about, swiping and slashing as its deer ducked away and then leapt in to buck and kick just as blindly, snow flung up in drifts and tree trunks hacked into falling with echoing creaks, and by then Wilson caught sight of Wendy whipping one of the deer across its snout with her Tail O' Three Cats, the weapon snapping loud and shocking the animal into stumbling back in confusion, going stiff and silent.

The Krampus monster swung away from where it had tried to swing at Wilson, who had easily hopped out of its way, and raised its butcher claws, gargling muffled sounds, words as it snorted and stumbled towards the general area of the deer, almost cooing as it seemed to try to find the shocked trembling creature.

He had made to go for its ankle, a sure fire target for any other large bipedal monster, but then a shadow puppet beat him to it. Shearing through flesh and fur, digging its shadowy sword deep and wedging even further as dark blood burst like a fountain from the wound, and then Wilson watched as the massive creature shook its head, hackles flaring, and quite easily twisted around and smacked aside the offending shadow, sending it rolling away in splatters of dark fuel before it returned back to its deer. It seemed entirely unfazed by the blood pouring out of its ankle, cupping its giant claws to the deers trembling snout and cooing hushed words in languages no one would ever know again, not at all bothered with interrupting the fight it had started in the first place.

And then the other deer squealed, cried out as Maxwell dug his shadow sword through its back, its wild kicking making him tug back early and not kill it first, and the man's face was livid with rage, offended at the obvious dismissal of his shadow spun clone.

As Wilson prepared to dart back in, this time keeping in mind the creatures seemingly careless nature, no one expected it to slowly turn, raise a giant hand to the sky, and garble words and bloody spit from its grotesque jaws, the snow around it splattered and thrown into messy piles as both deer went stock still.

And then the one Maxwell had taken a sword too, still bleeding out, swung its head, bucked and kicked and twisted, hooves flinging snow, the blue gem of its head glowing stronger and brighter and thickening the air with clouds of mist before it jerked itself around and-

-pointedly seemed to stare directly to where Webber had been creeping up on it, spiky tentacle weapon held tight in their claws and fur puffed up. Their eyes went wide in surprise, Wilson had already yelled out something but was immediately overwhelmed by the sudden raging roar of the Krampus monster, and with a burst of magic ice shards and fissures ripped apart the earth from the deer's hooves right towards the spider child.

Wilson didn't get to see what happened directly after that, only a shrieking pierce of a scream, half spider and all child, and it sent a cold shot through his chest and up his spine and the monster before him was only background noise, ducking under its swinging arms and its snorting belly, scrambling away as it kicked out a cloven hoof and tried to smack him away as easy as it had done to the shadows, ground slick with its blood and melted snow, before he was back up and running.

The fissure of ice and hissing steam, a heat under the frozen cold that bubbled like a geyser at its boiling point, crystal shards and flung soft snow sprinkled with the deer's blood as it trotted over its own magic without a care in the world, ears swerving and twisting around, and there was a dark blot curled up by the edges that had Wilson skidding to a stop by, panting as silently as he could as he reached to check if Webber was still alive.

Thankfully they chittered at him, eyes blown wide in spidery frozen pain, no words from their throat but that was probably for the best, the deer was obviously trying to track them, and Wilson brushed his claws over where the ice had encased their foot, up their ankle and almost to their knee. The frozen fissure spat more pressurized steam, cracks running across its surface as the cold cut right through his winter clothing, and even Webber was starting to shake, limbs drawn close and arms wrapped about their koalaphant vest. 

Thinking quickly when in a fight, especially a life or death one, was one of those things Wilson was always ever learning. But, when it came to the kids, he found his panic and fears replaced with something else he couldn't quite name, and wouldn't until much, much later.

Either way, his own arms shaking as the cold bit through him, his signing was not the best but Wes has been patient with teaching everyone certain words, going through them by the campfire during the nights when nightmares struck hard and weren't leaving, and a quick drag of his claws together, then a movement of his knuckle to his forehead, and Webber always caught on to the mimes signing faster than anyone else, seemed to take to it like a duck to water, and even in their obvious fear and shock their hands shakily went to the pockets of their vest and they took out their still warm thermal stone.

It would rapidly cool under this unnatural temperature, but Wilson was already pressing it to the ice, fast panting breaths as the snow cracked and leaked more steam from underneath, but frozen crystal melted under the pebbly stone and as quickly as he could, knowing the deer had drawn closer, its calls buggled and almost curious even, Wilsons claws finally broke away those last few pieces of ice, ditched the cold stone as he scooped Webber up and ran.

The deer bounded after them, a warbled call, but then the ice fissure ruptured and he got behind a still standing birch tree fast enough, holding Webber tight as they trembled in his arms, wind whipping as the ice splintered and flung in a burst of a pressurized blast.

He squinted open his eyes just in time to see the deer trip past, stumbling on its legs and still leaking blood everywhere as it tumbled from its own ice magic, collapsing down as it thumped into a tree.

For a moment, a blessed few seconds, Wilson was able to get air into his lungs as his adrenaline and shock still tried to flood him, bristly fur and spidery mandibles and chitin digging into his clothing and arachnid claws hooked to his vest, a brief reprieve of silence.

And then a roar from behind them, the struggle of the blue gem deer as it pushed its front limbs upwards, wobbling and bleating pathetically, huge footsteps that shook the ground and snow under his feet. Stumbling away in time to watch the tree shudder and slivers of wood sheared off in arcs before the tree creaked and fell to the side, and there stood the monstrous Krampus, cloudy blood oozing from its sewn jaws, more wounds and slashes bubbling darker blood in a trail behind it, and it garbled words as it took another step closer, towering over the both of them as it heaved for breath.

Webber clung tighter to him, shivering still as they whimpered, face pressed to his shoulder as he held them close and stubbornly glared the creature in its face, its lack of eyes and only a scarred grotesque mess.

Whatever little pity he had for it earlier, tortured and twisted beyond whatever it had once been, was long gone now that Webber had gotten hurt, and Wilson had no sympathy for the monster that would dare hurt the children he cared so much for.

Its odor washed over him, brimstone and coal, nicotine and warm chocolate, candy cane, and it heaved for breath as it stared right down back at him.

_...Naughty...or Nice?_

It rose up its butcher talons, the warble of the deer near right behind Wilson, and he tensed himself to dodge, dart away, possibly shove Webber out of harm's way if he was too slow or the attack was unpredictable-

And then the creature whistled a low rattling wheeze of pain, head jerking in surprise at a crackling split of sound, and out from behind it ran Wendy, blonde hair already a mess of knotted curls as she grabbed Wilson's hand without so much as a word, face a neutral drawn line as she tugged him into a sprint. In her other hand were the busted remains of her whip, splintered and frayed apart, near useless as the ground rumbled and the giant Krampus gathered its wits.

It looked like Maxwell had been distracting the other deer, another shadow at his side slashing the creatures hide, hitting it before it could even attempt to call out, but the old man was momentarily distracted when he looked up to see the lot of them racing to him.

The red gem deer bucked, hard, and kicked its legs right through the shadow clones torso, splattering oily fuel and causing its owner to immediately stumble away, hand at his chest as the creature burgled out a call for help.

The ground rumbled, Wilsom swinging his gaze around as he spotted the giant Krampus raise its arm once more, a thick taste of magic in the air, and he almost tripped as Wendy dragged him along, Webber held tight in his arms as the deer ahead of them suddenly went still, red gem glowing upon its forehead.

A harsh dry wind, so out of place to the snow and ice, and Wilson stumbled as Wendys hand left his and sudden cracks in the earth burst forth from the deer's hooves, ripping open to a heat wave of exposed lava. Snow melted near instantly under his feet, Webber shrieking right into his ear as he fell backwards to the ground, their spidery limbs and claws hooked tight to him, and a gush of heated steam and bubbled molten earth rolled right where his feet could have been, more dirt and rock falling away to splash into the miniature lake.

The shock racing through him suddenly was barreled over by near blind panic as he scrambled up, holding Webber tight as heat waves rushing over him and sucking away the moisture in the air as he realized _where was Wendy-_

And then he spotted Maxwell stumbling back from the other side of the gaping crater, clinging a hold to the girl as he dragged her away, the bubbling lava hot and burning the very air, and with Webber whimpering against him Wilson hastily got himself away from the orange and red glowing edges, circling well around through the melted snow and brown and yellow grasses to meet up with the other two.

Wendy had untangled from her uncles grip by the time he got near them, her arms crossed across her chest and eyes wide, face masked and yet the slightest hint of a tremble to her form, steam and melted snow still in her hair and soaking wet, the slightest hint of charring to her clothes, and Maxwell was still whistling for breath, looking worse for wear as smoke trailed from his sleeves and suit jacket edges.

"This isn't working." Wilson hissed to the old man, the lot of them now backing away as the deer went into a flurry of blind hysterics and kicked and bucked at absolutely nothing, the spots of lava in the ground growing dark, crusting over as the heat receded. The red furred monster itself was slowly making its way in their direction, waving its claws and bubbling blood with each step, not even looking a hint injured. "It's bleeding, but it's as if it doesn't care!"

Webber rattled a low chirp against his shoulder, obviously still shaken, and Wilson tightened his hold on them, trying to give at least some form of comfort to their distress.

"It should be dead by now, if not by blood loss then by shock." Maxwell sounded winded, face drawn hollow and deep from the use of shadow fuel, and his drawn sword was near melting to pieces in his hands but he seemed to be keeping it together for the moment. "That much damage causes a lot of pain, and not even a Deerclops can handle that without going down once."

"Perhaps it feels no pain." Wendy caught both of the men's attention, voice quiet, hiding the strain of what she has just gone through, only the slightest tremble to her small shoulders giving it away. "Perhaps it feels nothing but rage."

Another rumbling roar broke through their conversation, garbled almost words as those claws sheared through the snow and the monster snorted and sniffed the air, slowly tracking them, and the red gem deer had stilled, trembling on its thin legs and panting heavily, tongue lolling out.

It was heading towards them, the children, and it didn't look even remotely fazed from the injuries it had gained.

Wilson looked up at the other man, meeting his pitch black eyes, and he didn't know if they had the same agreement or not but he spoke first, turning swiftly to Wendy.

"You two need to get to camp, alright?" 

Webber chittered weakly as he set them down, putting all their weight onto one leg, their other pale and losing bristly hair, chitin looking soft and weak from the cold, but Wendy easily got their arm around her shoulder without even being asked, balancing their weight as she stared solemnly up at Wilson. The spider child was still shaking, not as strong now, and a few of their eyes were half lidded, even closed, mandibles and limbs drooping, and Wilson grimaced at the Knowledge thick on his tongue, the obvious shock in their system, but he couldn't do anything to help them but this.

Neither him nor Maxwell could leave with the children, as the Krampus monster could easily kill one of them if they were alone and if it wasn't distracted enough, and they couldn't risk it heading to camp where people were unprepared.

"Get some help if anyone is there, and stay there if there isn't."

Wilson glanced over to see if the older man had anything to say, but Maxwell only watched silently, face drawn with just as much hope as his niece believed in right now.

Which was to say, near none at all.

Still, Wendy gave no objection, instead turning her gaze to Webber and started in leading the both of them away. Camp was still quite a bit away, Wilson biting his tongue as he forced himself to not worry, Wendy knew how to get back, Webber will be fine, the both of them will be _fine_ -

A low growing rumble behind him snapped him from his worries, and Maxwell already was slipping his Codex back into his jacket, shadow fuel slithering and tugging from the shadow at his feet into something more solid, the man's face going even more pale but it was fairly obvious they would need all the help they could get.

Another one of those would start attracting Them here, which would make the fight far, far harder to win, but Wilson only gave the old man a hard look before he swung his backpack around, listening to the heavy stomps of the monstrous Krampus as it got closer.

Three weapons already out of the count, Webbers and his lost to that ice geyser, and the remains of Wendy's whip dropped into molten lava, but he wasn't completely unprepared thankfully.

An axe wasn't quite the best tool for taking on monstrous abominations, but it fit perfectly in his hands, claws curling a firm grip as he tossed his pack aside. There was nothing in there that would help them right now, and he could always pick it back up later.

A last look to Maxwell, a nod in unspoken agreement, and Wilson turned his glare back to the heaving torturous Krampus monstrosity.

And then the both of them ran in opposite directions, circling around the creature and its stumbling gem headed deer.

The magical creatures twisted their ears, huffed as they noticed the movement, and Wilson by now was hesitant, knowing it looked slow but that this thing was much faster than it let on. Maxwell was only a few feet away from him, shadow clone at the ready, and he expected the monster to turn towards them, scream and roar like it had been doing before.

Instead, it swayed to a halt, pausing as it rose a hooked claw hand and scratched idly at its furry throat, quiet gruffs of noise and puffs of cloud vapor from its bloody mouth. Its nostrils flared, snout tilting up as it sniffed, deep inhales taking in their scent, Wilson tensed as he readied himself it should be turning to them any minute now-

And then the creature leaned its head down, a choked gagging inhale that turned into a bloody splattering sneeze, and it angled itself away to start tracing the footprints the children had left in the snow, one heavy cloven hoof after the other, deer trailing along merrily as if they weren't leaving a bloody path behind.

That wasn't what either men wanted, and words were already bursting from Wilsons throat as he raced forward, raised the axe high over his head in a wild yell.

"We're still here, you blind bastard!"

The axe hit its mark in the back of the monsters leg, not quite it's ankle but higher up, sinking in only a few scant inches as dark blood bubbled up and coated its bristling red fur, and the beast didn't quite howl but it did holler, gargling surprise as it near stumbled in the snow.

Yanking the axe out, flinging a spray of thick blood and exposing the flesh underneath as the skin went flayed, Wilson almost tried to strike it again, tight grip to his axe and feverishly boiling energy in his limbs-

_-the Knowledge bled through the back of his mind, whisper thin and ugly gnawing, and Klaus was after the children-_

-before something solid enough had grabbed him, jerked him backwards in a toss before those butcher claws severed right through the shadow clone, peeling the nightmare fuel in arcs through the snow. 

He near tumbled in his fall, besides the fact that Maxwell was there and immediately was shoving him back to his feet, face twisted in phantom pain and the overuse of shadows, but there wasn't anytime for anything but scrambling back as the monster _screamed._

Its deer echoed its call, bugled loud and clear as fog escaped their mouths, inset gems glowing strong in the swollen bleeding flesh of their foreheads, and both lowered their heads, sharp antlers exposed and pointed directly to the two men.

The creature - _Klaus, Wilson realized, Klaus was its name_ \- raised a fuel soaked hand, talons curving as it snorted and flared its nostrils, sucking in a deep breath and exhaling mist clouds from its sewn together mouth, a gush of cream spotted black blood flowing from its punctured lips and maw. With a low, final gargle of sound, a word in a far forgotten language, it dropped its arm to point right at them, one huge butcher claw angled straight and true, and both deer coughed out a call, rearing up and bucking before each started to sprint.

Not towards them, no, circling them, kicking up snow with their hooves and calling and puffing as their master started to walk once more, talons draggin in the snow and waving, every once in awhile, as it headed their way.

With his bloodied axe in hand, Maxwell now only having his weakened shadow sword, Wilson eyed the circling deer, the approaching monstrous not quite giant, and swore a rather crude curse as he realized this was going to be a lot harder than he had initially thought.

For a split second before all hell broke loose, he could have sworn Maxwell actually chuckled at hearing him.

And then Klaus was there, heaving angry breath and swiping giant murderous claws, deer leaping in between the monster Krampus attacks just to buck and kick and attempt to skewer in the meantime, leaping right back out the instant those butcher talons were back. It was less hack and slash and more of a dodge fest, minding each lash, each rumble of a deer call and the whistling if the air as those claws descended back down, and everything else, even Knowledge, left Wilson's mind as he fell into the fight.

There wasn't much rhyme or reason to each strike, swinging the axe and hoping it striked true, doing his best to mind where the other man was, and it was only a mad rush of blood and dodging and the heated odor of Klaus, overwhelming and flooded with memories he'd much rather never bring to light. There was no room to think, to organize, to plan, to even decide what to do the very next few seconds; fights with giants were slower, the larger the beasts the easier it was to leap far enough away and gain a bit of sight for the field, but this?

Klaus did not let up when either men were close enough, swiping and huffing muffled groans, roars, and when either tumbled away for a breather, deer hopping on their heels attempting to get a last slash in, the Krampus monstrosity would sniff the air, turn its hulking body and once more start to track the faded trail of the children.

At one point, it started snowing.

Skidding back, axe caught in the antlers of the blue gem deer, Wilson grit his teeth as he shoved back at the warbling creature. Fog puffed from its hanging mouth, panting as it kicked its hooves into the snow, white soaking red across its slashed open back, and then it withered and tried to buck.

Wilson yanked back his axe, tense energy swung as he thrust the blade up and then out, catching the deer's throat and jaw in one brief second.

It gargled, raised a moment on its back legs, and then Wilson had to take a step back as it collapsed, catching his breath as blood slicked down the axe blade down to spot the snow. It kicked a bit, struggled as its tongue lolled out and half of its face lay near flayed, a minor crack to the giant gem atop its forehead from where the blade had snapped across it, heaving for breath and still trying to swing its antler about, still trying to get a hit on him.

It took a deep breath, muscles of its snout twisting, just about to call for help before Wilson, axe held firm in his grip, raised the weapon upwards and then swung down, driving the blade deep to its neck.

It bled out more as it weakly struggled, choking, not even enough to dislodge the axe, and Wilson hissed out an exhale of heated fog and put all his weight upon the blade, flesh tearing and bones cracking as he pressed down.

The deer died quickly after that, and snowfall was already starting to coat it's still hide, blood chilling in the ensuing silence.

Wilson huffed, panting for air as adrenaline started to peeter out, still holding to the axes handle as his arms shook from the strain. 

Giant fights usually had more people working together to take it down. He's forgotten what it was like, fighting near alone with something almost impossible to kill.

And then there was a gust of hot air right above him, washing over with those particular scents, disgust and loathing and the heady cloud of festive desserts, chocolate and peppermint, thick cloying cigars and ashy charcoal. The rumble seemed to reach through the very ground itself, vibrating low in the monsters gut and rising in a near gargled drawn scream, and Wilson froze for that one crucial moment, dead deer at his feet and blood slicked axe still in hand-

He didn't even get the chance to turn around.

There might have been a sound, and then a flash of red white, black grey, static explosion and the feeling of the ground leaving his feet and cold air whipping past him, and then a sudden drop from the silence into a chaos of tumbling cold snow and harsh earth. His vision was a swirling mess of sharp colors and slipping melting hues and for a second everything was frozen, still.

And then he gasped for breathe, wind knocked from his chest as he choked in the thick snow, blinding flashes of pain arcing through his skull, up and down his neck and spine as the cold stung and bit and seeped through his clothing, and all Wilson could do in his dizzy panic was shakily curl up in a fetal position and try to draw air back into his lungs.

There were sounds, noises and heavy footsteps and even higher pitched, shrieks and calls and the sound of things whipping too fast through the air, but snow clogged his vision, face pressed to the earth as he shook and trembled and bundled his claws into his hair, holding himself together, a slipping slide of imbalance that almost felt as if his brain was seeping from his skull, half vision that flickered and fluctuated and was dying out even as he finally started to get air back into him, choked through a too tight throat and wheezing as it tried to flood him over again.

He's felt this before, he knew, Knowledge rising like bile and slicking his tongue and seeping from his lips, dribbling to the snow as he pressed one palm to his face, to the blackout side of his vision. He's never survived it very well.

Nausea welled up, broiled in his belly and then overwhelmed in a hot tasting wave that had him gagging up whatever little was left in his stomach, choking on air and spitting into the snow as he shook and tried to gargle in a breath. Pain lapped and flooded in waves that crested the shoreline of his nerves and whatever was still jittering around in his head, everything centered on the agony, on breathing and shuttering air and not falling into spasms that twitched at his limbs and rattled the insides of his skull. Equal mesures red hot and stinging bites of cold, not gnawing but full on tearing through, digging deep and then sawing even more so to a cracked inwards center point, where the most pain, the most heat and now leaking blood pooled behind his palms and leaked over the snow in gushing splatters, and putting pressure itched and nudged something even sharper inward, digging a little deeper, folding through to leave his vision splattering static and near collapsing in his own sick as pins and needles flooded his limbs.

It wasn't often that he survived a full on hit, especially targeted to the head.

At the moment, Wilson was very much not grateful for this fact.

The shuddering and cold biting snow didn't let up, but the raging pains were numbing, buzzing over as he trembled, shock setting in as his halved vision fogged up, just the barest of clear skies as snowflakes continued to fall around him. Near face down in the snow, head turned and his claws digging little by little into the frozen earth, weakness and blind white noise sharp and painful through his limbs with every movement, it was easier to draw in breath now.

He didn't know how long he's been out, of both the fight and awareness, but blood caked one side of his face and the world spun even as he kept still, squinting his eye and then regretting it as his sense of balance twisted and curled and wobbled side to side. The snow before him was fluff, new, recent fallen, and it took another few moments, laying there and vaguely feeling goosebumps rise across his arms and over his skin, before the deep thumps of the earth started to give his empty head a bit more awareness.

And then Wilson remembered what he had been doing earlier, before the snow and the aching, throbbing pain that settled deep behind his eye and was scraping down low to the back of his skull. Moving was slow, wobbly, pulsing pains that oozed more blood to coat the snow about his claws, trembling even more as his breath grew fast and shallow, steam fog from his mouth, and even just turning his head, letting his gaze slide back and forth in a drunken haze, sent shuddering currents straight to his exhausted brain.

His vision wasn't cooperating, wasn't piecing the puzzle together even as his brian slid and skidded about the halls of his skull, but through the thin, steady falling snow he could see silhouettes dancing.

Dark shapes, cutting through each other with familiar ease and elegant jerks, smooth and yet pulled by the strings, and then the largest rounded with muffled bellows that spun up the ringing in Wilsons ears, tingling static rising and ever continually rising, a figure at the other end of the poles holding its ground with an answering scream back.

It played like a shadow show, puppets as Wilson laid in the snow and tried to gather his strength back, gasping ever so slightly as he stared at the dream like vision, the falling snow that coating his hair, numbing his hands and stiffening up his claws. It felt as if he had been watching for centuries, panting quietly as his vision wobbled and slid two steps to the right, leaving sensation and texture behind.

In reality it was only a few seconds more, shadows rushing at each other only to be cut down, one shadow after the larger, every sound mute and ringing low and true in his head.

 _David and Goliath_ , and Wilson sputtered out a gurgle that might have been a chuckle, blood coating the snow in front of him, blinking as his face started to ache, grow damp. He couldn't quite see himself, but he blinked his eye and squinted at the build up rose tint, blood leaking slow down his face as he continued breathing, continued watching, still and silent.

The ground shook when one shadow finally fell, tripped on weakening hooves and waving its arms in a frenzy, massive antlers finally dipping low, and the chaos from so far away was a play in of itself, watching as he was on the outskirts. Slowly, as more snow built up and coated his vision with less visibility, Wilsons arms shook and the numbness threatened to come undone but not even shock could stop him if he wanted to rise.

More blood gushed in a glittering splatter as his head lolled, weak in the neck, but eventually Wilson pushed himself, claws in the snow and mind flitting elsewhere willy nilly, now wobbling uneven on his knees.

He had to get up, and the Knowledge that was slipping and sliding out through his brain and swallowed in the back of his throat was whisper thin and ugly thick, clinging as Wilson struggled to maintain his balance.

Something caught his eye, half covered in new snowfall now, and he half blindly reached out, wobbled before his blood gritty claws clasped about the handle of his fallen axe. It still had deer blood on it, stains as he dug the top of the blade to the ground and used it as a makeshift crutch, just to keep him stable on his knees. 

The snow was soaked through his trousers by now, pins and needles and aching numbness, but it wasn't the prevalent waves of hot red that pulsed from his skull, leaking more fluids as his head wobbled, fighting the weight of even holding himself up. He didn't raise his hand to check, but Wilson could feel the blood running down from the corners of his good eye.

 _Not a good sign_ , Knowledge whispering, clinging as it leaked out with the rest of him, but sheer willpower had him twisting his head to look upon the fallen shadows.

If he squinted against the pounding ache that was throbbing in his skull, then he could almost identify them.

A last few shades, some humanoid, some not, before they cut each other apart in silent screams and hissing whispers, doppelgangers and Them in a dance of death neither won out, and then his vision slid to the hulking fallen mass of fur and antlers.

And the lone unsteady figure beside it, already driven a sword of pure fuel deep into the monsters thick neck. 

It took a moment, silence as the snow fell and the air calmed, a last heavy exhale from the Krampus monstrosity, and Wilson leaned heavy on the axe handle and watched as Maxwell swung around, looking frantic for a second.

He didn't have enough in him to call out, but the other man spotted him quickly enough, a near visible jolt of surprise before hurrying over through the fog of his vision. There was a limp in the others gait, and left behind him were the shadowy splatters and oil pools of nightmare fights.

The red abominations corpse stayed where it was, and the shadow sword in its neck finally started to disintegrate, steaming up in the cold air.

There was a pause when the other man got closer, a split second hesitation and flash of expression Wilson couldn't catch as he slowly blinked, eyelid heavy and mind dulling as it slid sort of to the right, leaning even heavier as his strength just barely held on.

"You…don't look so good."

Something in the folds of his memory rose like a bubble, a foggy unclear bubble that brushed the roof of the inside his skull, and it was enough for his face to twitch, cold numbness to his lips as Wilson held firm to his axe support and cracked a crooked smile.

Words rose and fell on his tongue, mixing wrong in his mind and only allowing him a short exhale of almost sound, scrambled and confusion setting in as the other man dropped down to his knees next to him, gloved hands raised to his head and not quite touching him, unsure and trembling. In comparison to his own shallow, slow breath, Maxwell was still breathing strained, exhausted, but it was only flashes of color, hints of movement that Wilson's slowly fading vision was catching, near nothing else.

The only thing he could do was keep a hold to the axe handle, and near nothing else connected together in his head as a slow rising wave of darkness started to breach his mind's eye.

There were hints of touch, brushing skids of vibrating pains and tingling over his scalp, the murmur of low voice but not enough for him to clear through and understand, slow and sending waves of aching pain to lap at his consciousness and make unconsciousness look all the more appealing. It felt as if eternity passed, sitting like this and breathing shallow, deep inhales of ice cold air and exhaling foggy pains, not quite seeing anything but a mist of cloudy colors and vague sensation, blips of pressure pains and swirling, leaking thoughts, before something nudged him in the shoulder, got a firm hold to his slack jaw.

And then shoved something spongy and dry into his mouth. 

It sparked enough to shudder, flinch back and almost lose his balance as he was steadied with a hand to his shoulder, and it was bready and thick to his dry tongue and automatically he tried to cough it out.

"No no, pal, you're going to have to choke that down if you want to keep being among the living."

Gloved hands to his face, and Wilson would have fallen by now if he hadn't been held up as his was, not enough strength to struggle and only gag around the foreign object until his spit slicked it enough to finally swallow.

A cold tingling hit the back of his neck near instantly, rose up through his cracked skull, and the fog was already clearing as he tried to get his breath back, the mist over his vision finally letting up. There was a shift, a slide dizzily backwards and sucking in of air and Knowledge and suddenly Wilson could _think_.

"Wha, wha' w-was…?"

His words still slurred, were hard to spit out and make comprehensible, and the numbness drew back enough for harsh slicing pain and he hissed out a groan, raised his bloody palm to press to his head-

Fabric caught on his claws, or more like silk, and it took another moment to realize his head had been wrapped up.

"You should feel lucky I carry mushrooms around, pal, and even more so it was the blue ones today." Maxwell was watching him, dark shiny eyes and wrinkled face drawn into a strained frown, but when Wilson wobbly got his gaze to look up fully and make eye contact, blinking away the dizziness, there was a slow softening of relief in the older man's face. "An amulet would do you better, but this should last until you get back to camp."

Wilson carefully dragged his claws across the makeshift bandaging, wrapped about near half his head, and the soggy blandness of the mushroom clung to his tongue and sat heavy in his belly but there wasn't even a hint of spotting to the silk as the regenerating effects started to take hold.

He wasn't the fondest of mushroom use by far, but even Wilson couldn't deny just how useful they could be. Green ones were more of what he ate, salty and usually charred, but the blues packed a punch in emergencies.

As for the wrappings, running his claws lightly over the fabric texture…

"W-where di' y-you…?"

His words slurred bad as his tongue twisted, fighting for control as Wilson squinted his eye and tried to get his brain to work it out, but the other man leaned back with a sigh, looking away as he swiped his hands over his suit, almost a hint uncomfortable.

"The old woman sews in her free time, and I had thought to try my hand at it." Maxwell was frowning, the usual scowl on his face as he suddenly leaned forward a moment, eyeing the wrappings and briefly brushing his hands over his work, a light touch to Wilsons claws that made him squint his eye and go still. "Hopefully she doesn't take offense for using a few of her gifts to keep you from bleeding out."

Wilson swallowed thickly as Maxwell pulled away, making a vague mental note to thank Wickerbottom later. He didn't try to get into the old man's business much nowadays, but it was a bit of a relief to hear he's been socializing more.

The paranoia the former Nightmare King harbored could rival even Wilson's when he was not doing so well mentally, and Wilson only knew of it due to previous mishaps with too many shadow clones and squealing waves of Them trying to tear their former King apart.

Pulling his hand away from his head, finding he could keep his balance without the axes help now, Wilson slowly struggled to a stand, Maxwell helping for only a brief moment, gloved hands at his shoulder as they both got their balance.

"Y-you didn' get h, h-hit?"

His legs were wobbly and weak under him, and he must look a right mess with the amount of blood coating his vest and the snow all about him, but Maxwell himself looked relatively unharmed as he pulled away. 

Extremely pale in the face, hollowed out and trembling ever so slightly, keeping weight off one foot as he crossed his arms to his chest and slightly hunched over, but otherwise nothing as severe as what Wilson was handling.

"The beast hated my shadows more than myself, apparently." That would explain the other man's posture, Knowledge and past experience bubbling up quietly as Wilson slowly nodded his head, fighting through the dizzy half vision the movement gave him.

Maxwell was going to be confined to his tent for awhile then, easing through the overuse of nightmare fuel and healing off the bruises the killed doppelgangers had left behind. 

As for Wilson...well, it wasn't as if he's never lost an eye before. He's lived with this sort of injury, mostly by himself, so hopefully this time around it should be easier.

The tingling in his limbs that the mushroom was leaving behind would fade soon, and he'd probably start bleeding again if he didn't get properly treated, but though his words slurred and his mouth didn't cooperate Wilsons mind was back in place, bruised and a bit sluggish but holding out for now. 

"...T-thank y, y-you."

His stuttered voice gave the other man pause, a hard look as Wilson took even breathes, balance finally stabilized, everything finally righting itself and giving him a moment's respite. It was going to be hell, cleaning the wound when he got back to camp, but he wasn't dead and his head was still firm on his neck, if a little cracked and broken.

"...Don't mention it."

The answer back wasn't completely unexpected, and Wilson nodded his head, slow and feeling his brain tip and slide, a bout of light headedness that eased once he swayed to a stop.

Klaus was dead, and the both of them had made it out alive. 

Getting his scattered wits about him, Wilson knew one deer was quite dead, seen to it himself, so what of-

A low sound broke both men out of their thoughts, ringing true through the snow and the thinning snowflakes. The sky had darkened to noon, thick cloud cover as the snowfall eased off for another few hours, and Wilson slowly turned his gaze around to look at the soft glow that was filling the clearing.

Warm red light washed over the broken remains of the leafless birch trees, nightmare oil splatters and pools of dark monster blood, the stiff corpse of the blue gem deer and the soft powder snow that had coated near everything, and it all pulsed from a rising amulet, red cut gem shining with its gold chains and bracing.

And, tangled underneath it in a slow half rise, was the heavy snow dusted corpse of Klaus.

Wilson only had half a moment of understanding, still slowed as the realization of what was happening set in, a flash as the amulet sucked in gusts of air and magic fizzling set a taste to the tongue as it sparked, and the only thing he could do as the gem inside started to crack was blindly reach out and grab for the only support he had as his knees wobbled underneath him.

Maxwell was just as unsteady, but Wilson had his claws about his sleeved arm and they leaned against each other for a moment as the Life Amulet finally shattered into shards of red glass.

A burst of magic scented air, warm and unholy, pleasant tingles to the back of the skull as it healed in its last moments, and then the red furred corpse collapsed back into the snow, gold and iron chains clanging sharp as they twisted and fell, empty amulet landing on top, steam rising through the cold.

For a moment, a few moments, the air was quiet and still.

Wilson could feel the other man leaning against him, shoulder to shoulder, stiff and tense, almost holding his breath before letting it whistle out of him, Maxwell wheezing as they both stared at the fallen monster.

And then there was movement, the chains rippling together and sliding to tangle with the snow, and one butcher clawed hand rose and fell to dig into the earth, a low rumble of near nonexistent sound rising from a deep belly. Slowly the hulking corpse pushed itself up, red fur and hackles rising as great clouds of warm air escaped its blood caked, sewn together lips, cracked hooves sliding a half second through snow before getting a grip. The gold and iron chains twisted, fell in ropes of metal clanging sound, a pile topped by the slowly shaken off empty amulet, shards of red gem dusting away as curled antlers rose back up high in the chill air.

Klaus breathed deep, furry shoulders rolling and spine cracking as the final chains were shrugged off, fur blood caked and slashed wounds stitching themselves back together in ugly scarred strips, and for a second no one spoke a word.

Wilson could feel a pounding behind his eyes, deep in the bottom of his skull and pulsing discomforting pressure, and most of his weight was against the other man now, blood rushing in his ears as he stared at the newly risen creature, unmarred and completely whole once more.

Slowly, as if stiff and aching, Klaus turned its head, nostrils flaring and lips twitching, pulling at the yellowed string about its muzzle as its claws dragged through the snow. Its hooves went deep through the new drifts, heavy steps as it moved unhindered by the weight of the left behind chains, and then it swayed to a slow stop.

Bending down, leaning as its fur bristled up and a deep sound rose from its throat, huge butcher talons curled careful and slow over the snow powdered corpse of the blue gem deer.

Wilsons own claws curled tight to Maxwells sleeve, tense as the other man hissed near silent breathes, and they watched as the Krampus monstrosity cupped the dead beast's snout, opened its strung tight mouth as much as it possibly could with clouds of exhaled fog, and started to wail.

The sound was sudden, too sudden and inhuman and yet just human enough, and Wilson couldn't help but jolt back, stumble as he pressed close to Maxwell and tried to not fall as snow crunched under his feet. The older man tried to help keep him up, his own trembling making it difficult, but it was just enough to give them away.

The heartbroken sound died in the monsters throat, head twisting in a sharp jerk to stare their way, eyeless and encased with strung together yellowed string and scar tissue, and its claws let the corpse go, curling and uncurling into a spread of massive talons.

Words were on his tongue, scrambled together as his heart pounded frantically in his chest, the pains of his head mixing in a slush of fear and panic he couldn't quite get a hold on just yet, wound too recent to just brush off, and Wilson stared wide eyed as Klaus hauled itself to its feet with a building roar.

The fur of its belly bristled, stuck up on end and skin pulled taunt, a hint of more yellowed string before suddenly it almost seemed as if the creature had near ripped itself in half. 

Blood and saliva was flung in splatters across the snow, flesh peeling to reveal massive bone protrusions, jutting sharp and disjointed like a maw with inner convulsing flesh. Its whole body shuddered, arms jerking back as it split near in two, a gush of blood through the torn flesh and coating its fur, dripping to the snow its hooves churned up, and the full bellied roar of before suddenly shrieked up a couple of notches as the sound burst from its blown open gut.

It was only a few seconds warning, a tense crouch of its legs and the splayed spread of its arms, head and neck falling back in a heave of prepared breath, but it was enough of a warning to spark through Wilsons bruised brain, just enough. His claws tightened on Maxwell's sleeve, twisting in a nauseous turn that had him grab at the startled man before tugging them both in a tripping, stumbling tumble.

Maxwell made a sound, a squawk of a surprised yell, but that was blown over by the sudden volume of a monstrous scream, air whipping up and snow flung in the too fast movement before Wilson had dragged the other man down. The fall banged his brain around in his skull and shot pulsing pains through his darkened half vision but it was enough to get them out of the way as massive claws slashed through the air in frantic murderous chaos.

Woozily scrambling backwards through the snow, his gaze going wobbly and hard to see as Maxwell finally got his wits about him enough to grab him by the shoulders and tug him up and away, and Wilson was wobbling in an uneven stand as he stared at the slashed apart snow Klaus was still hacking away at, screams and blood pouring from the massive maw in its belly and shrieking as more dark blood bubbled froth from its sewn together mouth. The mass of its face, the scars and threads strewn this way and that, oozed and were torn open in bloody raw tissue, strained and leaking down its snout and mange fur, dark tear trails of what shined in glimmers almost like nightmare oil, rolls of pus and abscess revealed under the peeling skin and fur. The yellowed strings were coated in fluids, pulled tant and tugging as the Krampus monster went into a blind fit, ripping apart the snow and earth where the two men had been standing, and all Wilson could do after his flare up of lagging energy was let himself be dragged away, Maxwell pulling him along with heaved breathes and firm, trembling hands.

He...he didn't even know if he had enough in him for another fight, not with half his skull cracked like it already was. 

But Knowledge was pooling thick in the back of his throat, threatened to choke him as his legs stumbled in the snow, and _Klaus would follow them to the ends of the earth consumed with rage and hatred-_

And then Maxwell was suddenly shoving another mushroom into his hands, vibrant blue and white spotted. The cooling pools of nightmare fuel splattered about them were of sudden use, Wilson standing there in ditzy confusion with the fungi in his palms as the old man hurriedly scooped batches of the gelatin together, amassing thick oil in between his gloved hands. 

The Knowledge rambled, continued to ramble too thick and loud with Klaus's screams, too much muddled in Wilsons already too muddled cracked open head, and all he could do was stand and watch as Maxwell withdrew a few bits of twigged wood from within his jacket. The flashes of natural engraved faces, twisted mockeries of silent wails and shut eyes, dark curled wood before the old man doused them in the nightmare oils, a focused look on his wrinkled face in the brief reprieve they had.

Watching as the fuel coiled, solidified and whispered low to itself, and Wilson suddenly realized what was going on, what was going to happen.

And what he'd have to do.

So he shoved the mushroom cap into his mouth, chewy and bready and tasteless, let the cold sting flow up and down his spine and neck, settle deep to his brain and curl regeneration through his already too tired, too damaged body.

And, when Maxwell wordlessly handed him one of the newly crafted dark swords, its whispers and snapping fuel licking across the old man's gloves, trying to find a way in, Wilson only gave him a glancing, unreadable look before taking the weapon.

The plan wasn't spoken, but with another mushroom pulsing faded shadows and new stitching blood through his veins Wilson sucked in a deep breath, gathered his will, and turned towards the flailing monstrosity with the sword in hand, Maxwell by his side with just as much preparation.

When Klaus finally let its arms drop, drag claws through the snow as it heaved for breath, great gasps from its torn belly as it twisted its leaking head side to side and took heavy sniffs and snorts of the air, was when both men took the initiative to strike.

This time the fight was much more hack and slash, the dodging more frantic, but made easier without the intrusion of the vicious deer. The nightmare sword _sang_ in Wilson's hands, claws curled and letting the fuel twist and slither up his wrists, and it bit deep and drank through the monsters hide whenever he got it to lash out just right. His swings were random, haphazard as his feet got him twisted up and dizzy, but each time that ghastly snout turned towards him another sword bit through flesh on the opposite side, distracting each attack as Wilson tried to follow through. Klaus's anger was even more blinding to its swings, screeching and snapping its torn belly that almost clipped Wilson with protruding jagged bone, pure willpower and utter luck as he avoided getting smacked at, as he ducked away from snapping jaws and only got hit by the warm spots of splattered, spitted hot blood and dark oil as the monster fell into its incompetent rage.

Time was meaningless in the chaos of dodging and lashing out, hoping to whatever was out there that he'd not cut through the other man by mistake in his half visioned assault, but faintly it almost seemed as if Klaus was flagging, the snow soaked red and black and dark crimson, its fur slicked and gunked up as skin parted under the nightmare blades slices.

And then there was a build up of sound, a sudden sucking inhale as Wilson jammed his sword into the side of its leg, dragged down its thick muscle and parting the red fur into a flay of bloody skin, and the sound was startling enough, warning enough as always.

He's fought too many of the Constants nightmare creations to just ignore that governing pause in fights, and yanking the sword out, making the creature stumble as its leg went almost lame at cut tendons, Wilson caught sight of Maxwell doing the same as himself; backing off to give space as its arms shuddered and its head fell back, gusts of clouded steam from its bloody tugged lips, bubbled pus and fuel coating its furry cheeks and dribbling down its neck from the scar mass of where its eyes once had been.

For a few seconds, catching his breath as adrenaline raced through his veins and numbed the aches and sharp pains he knew were digging their hooks into him right now, Wilson watched as the creature grew very, very still.

And then the air held in its lung burst out, massive maw splitting open in a wide, near sliced in half shriek of sound, vibrating loud and echoed in the snow and the leafless trees, a different sound, twisted and curled in a tone almost-

_-almost like a call._

And then silence, as Klaus, as they all breathed heavy and deep, and Wilson could feel a pounding ache rising once again behind his eyes, he may need another blue cap if Maxwell even had anymore on him-

The silence suddenly splintered, cracked, rips of low distortion as holes sprouted in the fabric of the Constant, and not so far away Wilson realized he could hear a rising hissing sputter, giggles and harsh high pitched voices, rumbles low and spitting as hooves trampled fast and bouncing through the snow.

He only recognized what Klaus had called a few seconds too late, a scrambled yell of warning to the old man suddenly overturned by a din of garbled voices, laughing and cackling as the once near empty clearing was filled by jostling red furry bodies and glowing goat slit yellow eyes, whipping hairless tails and slithering slick tongues, snaggletooth snouts and curled high horns.

The mob of Krampi trampled together, butting heads and shoulders and shoving at each other, and many eyed Wilson as they circled about him, curious and cruel and excited garble. But they weren't all just focusing on him, and neither on the trapped form of Maxwell, shadow sword raised in a trembling threat as the old man still panted for breath.

No, all eyes slowly turned, narrow and cruel and gleeful, and looked up upon the monstrous Klaus as it breathed deep, blood oozing from its belly maw and even more coated down its furry throat, its shoulders and unchained chest. For a moment there was a hush, the crowd of Krampi watching, ears twisting and swerving about, long fat tongues licking lips and goat eyes blinking in narrow attentiveness, and Wilson huddled low, trapped and encircled with only the low whispering, gnawing nightmare sword in his hands, cut off from the other man in the ensuing silence.

And then Klaus made a sound, a gargled cough, lips twitching as clotted blood splattered and wheezed from its tangled strung mouth, and the language it spoke was old and far lost and far harder to understand, to even hear, sliding between the folds of Wilson's already bruised and battered brain and making the chilly air somehow grow colder, the colors of the world drain even further away. His balance was wavering, flagging as whatever energy he had been able to drag out of himself started to fade away, and the sword nipped at his skin, slithered too close and warmly cooed. The Krampi's glowing yellow eyes washed over him as many turned their head, eyed his shaking form.

Wilson stared at them wide eyed, could feel a build up in his skull and the sudden wet spotting as blood trailed from the wrappings of his face and started leaking to his vest, the collar of his tucked shirt, and there was a moment of silence as Klaus finished its gargled speech in a language Wilson knew nothing of and never would in his infinite lifetimes of the Constant.

And then the nearest Krampus to him, catching his eye with its glowing own, pulled its black lips back into a drooling grin, airy giggles escaping its throat as it shouldered the sack on its back. Its eyes narrowed and tail whipped the air about it, brushing against a few of the others.

It took a single step, hooves crumbling the churned snow underneath it, and that was enough for Wilson to flinch back as his vision went swirled and slided, flashing dark and going unclear as the sword ate up what was left of his mind in slithering coos of silent sound.

That single step, that brief moment of visual shown fear and pain and panic, set the horde off.

It was chaos, chaos of sound and cackles and gargled shrieks, movement quick and fast and he tried to lash out with the sword, tried to answer to the hungry nightmares demands but Wilson just barely swung it before a whipping tongue wrapped about his hand and tightened, oily fuel clinging desperate to his claws as he dropped the sword in distressed shock, and then there was a mob of hooves and hisses and tails and tongues as he was kicked, pounced and flung and shoved against each red furred, laughing imp, vision twisting and curdling in pulses of color and light.

He spun, was twisted around and around in loops as each grinning face, goat slit eyes glowered at him in awful glee, and the Krampi shouted to each other in their giggling tongues and made a game of it, kicking and shoving him every which way. Their hooves left bruises, aching blunt hits and then, a few times in between, a much louder snap and tug, pinching pain to his chest, his ribs, hip and arm and tripping him up with a long hairless tail, laughing all the while as Wilson struggled to right himself in the mob.

Briefly he caught sight of Maxwell, thrown and tossed about by the giggling imps, not even given a moment's breath as chaos and giggling red reigned. The dark heavy shape of Klaus was only a flash in the chaotic mob, footsteps muffled over by the many clacking hooves that clattered over each other and churned up the snow, only the briefest glimpse of curled antlers above the sea of curved Krampi horns.

And then one got him in the back, pulled up and balancing on its tail as it shoved its hooves to his spine, and Wilson went flying into a skid through the snow, hoofed legs kicking and tails lashing wildly, an uproarious round of jeering and cackles as the imps surrounded him on all sides, packed together and grinning madly, spitting saliva in their excitement.

His brain was scrambling again, the only thing he could even latch onto being that no hoof has made contact with his injury as of yet, but now he was down on the ground and in range as the red imps ganged up in an obnoxious gaggle of cheers and laughter; it was instinct to curl up and cover his head with his arms, churned snow biting cold to his exposed skin, seeping through his already sodden clothes as Wilson shook and trembled in this nightmare of shock and pain and near enough frozen panic.

There was a moment of stillness, the quiet cackle of the Krampi as they giggled to each other, and Wilson braced himself for the onslaught that he vaguely knew would come, kicked and stomped to death by red furred, rat tailed imps, blood and snow coating wet down his face once again as he shivered and started to feel the slide of his brain once more into fuzzy numb static.

But then there was a sound, an interrupting shuddering shriek through the air, and everything went still and silent.

His thoughts were sliding and his skull was pounding something awful but Wilson stuttered in an inhale and peeked out from his arms, vision unfocused and blurring in a woozy smear as he fought to keep a grip. The pain was coming back, waves of it pulsing and shoving thick in his throat, swelling up in his head, but the silence was too sudden to ignore, to even try to ignore.

The Krampi stood around him, heads lifted and ears forward, still, black lips curved downward and even their tails stiff and unmoving, and vaguely Wilson could hear the muffled sound of something struggling, muted screams just barely breaking through the ice of the air. He lifted his head, slow and cautious and knowing it was the worst thing he could do, bring attention to himself, but thoughts were a confused pulsing red glow and the only thing that was keeping him tethered was a focus to the ungodly sounds.

A few of the Krampi actually took some steps back, hesitant, snouts twitching and lips peeled in frozen uncertain snarls, and it was enough space for Wilson to catch sight of what they were all staring at.

One Krampus was struggling, kicking its hooves into the snow and flailing its clawed hands, tail lashing and flinging cold ice all about as it withered, and blood gushed from where it finally got its claws to grab and shove where Klaus had its gut maw clamped about its head and neck.

A deep rumble rose from the monstrous Krampus, its snout tilted down and beading blood, thick viscous nightmare fuel and cloudy pus down its face from where the sewn string and thread were pierced in swollen scarred flesh, and it clenched and unclenched its butcher talons, fog rising from each exhale of its sewn together mouth.

Its other, larger mouth twisted, the skin and fur of its blood crusted belly tensing, and with a sudden crunch and shake it snapped the caught Krampus's head clean off, tossing the body as it spewed blood off into the snow. The surrounding imps skittered back, glowing eyes wide and silent as the corpse twitched and clawed frantic for a few more seconds, claws dragging furrows into the snow, and then Klaus straightened up, dull rumble rising louder as drool and blood gushed from its strung up lips, a roll of its gut before it spat out the crushed red and dark crimson mess of the imps decapitated head.

Words gargled from Klaus, low and spurting more bubbling blood, a froth rising in the corners of its lips, and Wilson slowly pushed himself to his knees, working to get up, maybe get away in the ensuing shocked silence.

And then one of the Krampi bleated, a loud call of sound, words thick in its language, but before even a full sentence fell from its lips Klaus had twisted around and lashed out, massive claws cutting the creature down without a thought.

Chaos broke out in an instant, different from before, not a converging but a fleeing stampede as Krampi screeched and wailed to each other, packs shouldered and then, in the ensuing madness, lost as they all scrambled to get away.

Wilson was shoved, stumbled as his balance left him in the uproar, but each maddened imp that tripped past him was another brief pillar that kept him up and from falling, bristly arms catching and pushing him away as they all fought each other for the quickest route. The very air shivered, shuddered as holes poked through the fabric of the Constant, peeling through as quickly as their hooves could get them, and Wilson was spun around again in time to see another Krampus slashed into, going down as talons dug deep to its back and tore through its near empty sack, scattering charcoal and nuggets of gold.

The squealing imps hardly gave him a moments thought, all fun and games long gone as they shoved past, but another turn around and flinching away with his halved flickering vision and the feeling of hooves crushing his feet in the frantic rush had him catch a glimpse of Maxwell in the madness.

The older man wasn't doing any better than himself, shoved around and barreled over in a frenzy, pushed back and back and ever backwards, and even if Wilsons voice wasn't tangled bad with his tongue and his brain wasn't struggling to put two words and understandings together his warning wouldn't have been heard over the din of the screeching Krampi.

A rough shove had him spinning, brain twisting round and round in his cracked skull and the cold wet feeling of blood pouring down his face, trailing his cheek and throat, and then Wilson stumbled for a split second to the right and stared wide eyed as Klaus opened its belly maw in a built up roar right behind the flailing former Nightmare King.

The sound startled the Krampi, imps jolting and flinching as they stumbled and tripped, and he caught sight as one tumbled right into the tripping old man and shoved him out of the way of the descending jaws.

But not out of the way of ensuing swung butcher talons, thread straining across its face as the monster screamed in an audible rage. 

Wilson only caught sight of the scene for a moment, the imp between Klaus's maw cracking in a withering struggle of limbs and screeches, only the briefest scene of Maxwell going down under those swung claws, and then he was shoved aside as a Krampi snarled at him and knocked him from its path with a swing of its curved horns.

A tree trunk broke his fall, knocked the air from his lungs and then skewering something already broken inside him, choking for air before he was hacking and coughing blood into the snow, and the footfalls of the fleeing Krampi lessened as they all scurried away, leaving the clearing more messily empty than when they had first arrived.

His sight was fading low now, flickering shadows merging in the corners of his peripheral vision and watching as he struggled to breath, sharp stabbing pains straight into his chest and not letting up as he gagged on iron hot blood, half his face a numb wet pulsing mess of muffled agony.

He didn't...he didn't think he had much more time left. Wilson's died too many times to not know the signs, and this fight was going on for too long.

He's survived hard fights before, long ones too, days even dodging giants and trying his best to cut them down, but losing an eye was usually the sign when he needed to retreat. Losing this much blood so quickly wasn't going to help beat down a monster.

 _But_ , warbled the Knowledge still slithering thick in his head, slowly slipping away in a hush, _Klaus will track the children._

Wilson couldn't allow that, couldn't chance it, but even just struggling to get to his knees, try for a stand, it was too much.

The snow cushioned his collapse, cold and numbing and, almost nice feeling against the side of his face as the wrappings soaked through with the chill. Letting his foggy vision close for a moment, just a moment, rasping in and out breath as the sharp stabbing prodded through his chest with each inhale, and there was a dull cloud that was starting to settle, fatigue lighting heavy to his limbs, everything just too much.

He's done worse, Wilson knew, he's gone through worse, but not even he can go through _everything._

He's tried, and now he was very, very tired.

The muffled footsteps of Klaus, the sounds outside his radius of perception were low and slipping, sliding, and Wilson heaved for breath in the snow and started to accept that this may be one of those times where he couldn't win.

And then there was movement, faint, nearby, a slither sound of shadow.

Wilson almost didn't open his eye, was almost ready to be done, before his face twisted into a grimace and he squinted out with blurry sliding sight over the churned muddy snow.

Near right next to him, tilting this way and that, was a shadowy doppelganger.

He stared at it, exhausted and not even feeling the cold anymore, and it seemed to stare at him, oils thin and swirling slow, near see through as its darkness faded and pulsed like a heartbeat. Fuel slithered off in drops from its fingertips, steaming up in the snow, and it looked near to collapse, perhaps even past that point.

But on it stumbled, treking about in a disjointed, seemingly random manner, every once in awhile leaning, crouching down and digging its hands into the snow.

Wilson watched on, breathing easing up and slowing down, and he couldn't really feel the pain anymore and he didn't know why there was a shadow wandering around but his thoughts felt like muddling through molasses, exhausting and not making any connections. Idly looking on, the background noise of whatever was going on out with Klaus and leftover Krampi not even enough for him to acknowledge, Wilson resigned himself to his fate.

Then the shadow jolted, almost flinched even as it jerked its hands away from the snow, before it thrust its hands deep and leaned over, more oils and fuel leaking as its form started to wobble, loose some shape.

He's never really seen one that weak before, Wilson idly realized. The former Nightmare King must not be doing so well for his work to be that shoddy.

That thought rose with a blip of worry, concern, but washed out just as quickly as he shakily inhaled, numbed pressure building atop his lungs, not quite pain anymore but somehow worse. 

The shadow reared back up to its feet, hands cupping something close, and then it wobbled and stumbled right over to him, each step leaving behind more fuel.

It landed on its knees, one hand jerkily poking at his shoulder, insistent, and Wilson blinked blankly up at it.

He didn't even think he could talk correctly at this point, words not even reaching his throat, nor past the block of his leaking mind, but the doppelganger was not deterred by his lack of response. With a shudder through its whole frame, growing tense and still for only a moment, it leaned over and _shoved_ him.

That sparked the pain right back, numb pins and needles biting and clawing through his heavy head and most of his body, but it was enough for him to lash out and try to push its grip off him.

Gargling something that might have come out as "Get off!" but instead was a mushed mess of a groan, head pounding in a tandem beat of pain with his pulse and blood rushing up and down in horrendous torrents of awakening agony, Wilson could feel the air in him choke up, shock through his system as he was manhandled about. It didn't seem to care about its rough treatment, and no matter how weak and thin it looked the shadow was still stronger than him, unbelievably so as it pushed him up, back pressed to the tree trunk.

Then it held out its other hand, palm flat as it raised what it had to his face, a gesture of insistence.

Cupped in its shadowy leaking palm was a shriveled up mushroom, sill coated in snow and frozen dirt.

A blue one, Wilson vaguely recognized, and his tongue was thick in his mouth and his throat felt swelled up, skull emptying and he couldn't even keep his head up with how heavy everything had become, but he squinted his eye at its faceless head of swirling transparent oils and hoped that his meaning got through.

Did it really expect him to eat that? It wasn't going to keep him alive, barely a drop to his already drained strength, and at this point Wilson already knew he was going to die. A bit of extra energy, some more time to extend his life, and for what?

He was sure he'd bleed out long before that red furred monster would ever fall.

The shadow did an odd wiggle, exasperated, somehow giving off the feeling of frustration, and it waved the blue cap close to his face a few more times, as if to entice him. 

And then it got fed up by his lack of response, a shudder through its form as gushes of oil streamed off it into the snow, and one hand shot out and tugged hard in his hair.

A split second of offense, vague jagged memory fear, _he didn't like that at all_ , before it jerked his head up and made his swimming vision turn out to the hellscape of the clearing.

There were near no Krampi left, besides the dead and mangled, and Wilson's eye was watering but he could see Klaus as it stomped heavy atop one of the struggling imps backs, crushing through its chest and making its flailing cease.

The monster was waving its claws out blindly, almost drunkenly as it near tripped atop the corpse it had just created, and huffed groans of sound as it tried to catch the other stumbling figure that was still there.

The shadow was leaking nightmare fuel all over him by now, warm fluids that contrasted badly to the numbness, but Wilson didn't need its insistence to look to recognize that its creator was still out there fighting.

Something bitter slipped through the slide of numbness, _So what?_ , but even he could see that the other man wasn't uninjured, vague flashes of crimson red and the way he held himself, shadow sword in one hand and the other pressed to his neck, stumbling away from the blind twists and lashes of Klaus.

The shadow let up its grip, let him flop back against the tree and sent spires of pain up and down his spine, blunt bruising to the back of his already messed up skull. It seemed thinner than before, more see through, a visible trembling through its entire form that shuddered oddly with the surrounding chill air, and once more it raised up its offering, held it close to his face as it waited.

 _Klaus will kill you_ , Knowledge swimming thinly through his skull, an understanding setting in as his body started to shut down, _Klaus will track the children back to camp._

_Klaus will kill them all._

...Well, Wilson thought, squinted dizzly at the shriveled husk of a blue cap and it's fine coating of mud and ice, it wasn't as if he was going to survive this anyway.

There was no point, but he could at least be assured that he had _tried._

And, no matter how little hope there was left, there was always that chance. 

With that, his hands shaky and uncoordinated, Wilson reached out and weakly took the cap from the shadows hands.

His shaking, the cold dropping and numbness that was rising too high now to full ignore, it was slow going to just try and raise his trembling hands to his face, but then those shadow warmed hands cupped over his knuckles and claws, helped steady his grip for the few moments it took to get the cap into his mouth.

The oils leaked and spilled from its leaning form, faceless and yet somehow giving off an aura of emotion, feeling as it held his hands and waited for him to finish chewing up the mushroom and swallow, near choke it down. When he finally did and was taking deep breaths, the instant surge of energy, feeling back into his limbs and numbness pushing away the agony that lay in wait for later, the shadow leaned ever so slightly a bit more, shuddering and going weak as his own strength returned.

Wilson stilled as it leaned its head to his shoulder, trembling awfully hard as its hands clung to his own, fingers curled about his claws and completely dead silent, before with a silent hiss of an exhale it's form washed into a smoky steam and thin layer of oily fuel to mix with the blood and sodden snow atop his clothes. The rest of it slipped thinly into the snow, darkened the crumbling ice only faintly gray, and for a second Wilson sat stiff and still as the shadows presence finally dissipated completely.

Was sort of rude of it to muck him up like that.

But before his thoughts could articulate his irritation a bit more there was a thunderous groan, edging from a wheezing roar that couldn't quite make it, and Wilson was pushing himself up, didn't bother trying to wipe the film of fuel off himself as his legs stumbled and locked a moment before coming back around, and his head was still sloshing about with his deflated brain but Wilson had enough strength in him right now, just enough to get his balance and strengthen his will.

He was going to die from this, but this wasn't the first time he's been in such odds. He's given up before, but he was always alone when he did, when no one but himself was in danger.

And, it may be pointless, Klaus may just reach camp anyhow, but with another of those horrid mushrooms in his system, another chance at getting a few more shots in, Wilson couldn't let the opportunity slide.

Especially since Maxwell, of all people, was out there. He didn't know how many shadows the old man has summoned today, already knew he's fought off a few of Them, but from the looks of it there would be no more. That last one had been weaker than any Wilson has set eyes on, and anything else would just be fodder for those butcher claws to cut through.

Maxwell was still fighting, alone, and Wilson grit his jaw, a background pulse inside his skull warning him of the inevitable, and he wasn't going to give up now, nor ever again.

Surviving alone was one thing, having others rely on him was another.

His steps were wobbly, shaky, but Wilson narrowed his one good eye, face coated in blood and hints of nightmare fuel, and stumbled to where his dropped dark sword was sticking up from the snow, let its reaching tendrils wrap about his claws. Its whispers hardly reached him, Knowledge drowning it out, and, with sword in hand, Wilson raised up his weapon, took a steadying breath of the chilly air, and charged.

It was too bad his brain wasn't connecting with his tongue anymore; if it could have, he was sure he'd have some sort of witty battlecry to yell out as he ran forward.

Then again, it was probably better he was silent; Klaus, turned away and slashing huge talons through the snow and gargling, choking up blood and fuel from both mouths, didn't even see him coming.

Thrusting the sword through the hollow of its back, gashing low to its hip and then sweeping the blade in a slice of blood and flayed skin that skimmed its already torn up leg, Wilson grit his teeth, hissed out a foggy breath as the hot pulsing behind his eye grew louder, and set himself up for the fight.

Klaus didn't scream; there was only a low groan, a wobble of the monsters form as its fur turned darker with its blood, the shifting movement as it limped weight to its mangled leg and cracked, blood soaked hoof. 

And then Wilson was preemptively dodging out of the way, muddy snow churned under his feet as those massive claws swept through the air he had just been occupying. Klaus rumbled sounds that might have once been words, choking on the blood and spit that kept leaking from its tied up mouth, and it tore at the snow, dug up chunks in its frenzied dizzy rage.

With Wilson backing off, he caught a glimpse of the other man sneaking up right behind the monster, a sudden limping stab forward that got it once more in the back, higher up the spine before the old man was stumbling away, Klaus once more swinging around to try and get a swipe in. Its movements were slowing, drunken heaves as its gut maw bubbled sickly froth and coughed up nightmare fuel, and it wasn't much of a fight at this point.

Taking turns to stab at the monster and wait for it to vainly retaliate was far removed from the fast paced chaos of before. Even with the caps healing, or at least pain numbing qualities Wilson could feel its effect waning with each movement he made, each duck and stumble that left his head spinning and limbs shaking. 

Maxwell looked no better, though he didn't risk getting too close. Distracting the Krampus monstrosity's attention between two different directions was working out rather well for them right now, and he wanted to keep the upper hand.

Still, only a few minutes later and it was very visible that all three were flagging.

 _Klaus is dying,_ thought tinged with Knowledge seeping through the cracks as Wilson watched the monster heave for breath, leaning over and putting weight to its gorey claws in the snow, gasping as its wounds continued to gush its life away. 

_All of us are_ , pressing a shaking fitful palm to his head, to his blacked out vision, numbed muted pain putting a pressure to his skull and making his good eye see static blossomed stars before Wilson jerked his blood soaked hand away. A wave of nauseous weakness rolled through him, twisted his stomach and made his trembling even worse, but Klaus was on its knees and he had the chance, right now, he could finish this-

A stumble, almost trip forward, vision going misty and only briefly seeing other movement, and then Wilson was jamming his sword with all the strength he could muster into the side of the beasts neck.

Just opposite him, on the other side of the monster, blood spewed from furry red skin where Maxwell had done the same.

Klaus gargled, shuddered as both men tugged their swords and, with not even a bit of dramatic pausing, tore out the creatures throat.

The nightmare sword wailed silent in his claws, fuel leaking down his wrists and darkened skin before it started to disintegrate into smokey steam and dribbling oils, dark blood mixing and spotting the snow as Wilson found his hands empty. A moment of confusion set in like a nasty cloud of bad air, stuttering for breath before the chill of late evening cut through and drove it away, the cold snow of the clearing already freezing up in the sharp curves and waves of the past frenzied fight. Breathing was getting a bit harder, pressure pains and that sharp poking that was making him audibly whistle in air, but the dizzy moment of confusion was snapped awake as Klaus groaned behind him.

The great creature was still trying to keep itself up, butcher claws curled in the snow and hooved legs spread in the muddy ice, its maw of a belly hanging limp and slack. Blood and nightmare oils and other disgusting fluids leaked out of it, each heaved breath washing the snow under it with more foul colors, and its gasps were rattling wet sounds, head still held high, antlers raised taller than Wilson, than Maxwell even in its suffering.

Its face was a mangled mess, strings and threads strained and tensed so much that many hung loose, a few even snapped, and the wounds and reopened scar tissue were a mess of infection and raw exposed flesh, dribbling liquids of varying colors, viscosity and make down its sodden furry cheeks, its jawline, fur slicked and coated back with blood. Even with its throat torn apart, a dangling mess of flesh and tubes and ribbing, Klaus still tried to breath out of it. Gushes of hot steam puffed from the exposed injury, along with thick bubbling sounds and gargled blood, and the monster rocked ever so slightly, side to side as it seemed to try to steady itself.

And then Wilson watched as its strength finally left it, the wobble of its arms and strain of torn muscles before the heavy mass of flesh and fur and abomination collapsed with a heaved exhale into the snow.

For a moment all was silent, save for the strained breathes of the three of them, the gargled wet sounds of Klaus, his own whistle that was starting to go shallow, the rattling wheeze from Maxwell across from him.

Those bubbling sounds slowed, faded as the great beasts back went still, as its large form stopped shuddering, and Wilson held his breath for a few seconds, watching it with a wide, slightly glazed eye.

He almost expected it to come back again, another hidden Life Amulet, but there was no sound, no movement, no flash of red warmed light.

Snow crunched underfoot and he dizzily raised his head to watch the other man stumble, limp as he went about the fallen monster, abandoning his own nightmare sword in the snow and hand still held to his neck, and it was enough for what was still holding on inside his skull for Wilson to jolt back to reality.

His limbs were heavy, too numb to feel the pain but assured of the dragging weights trying to pull him down, and, with a last blurry look to the monster, he forced his legs to get moving.

That glancing look was just enough to notice the strain of its head and neck, ripped apart ears raised and snout curling into a bloody torn sneer, the sudden tensing of its stiff arms.

A last flood of energy, sudden spouted panic and will, and Wilson was jumping forward, claws curled tight into blood soaked stiff fabric and near tackling the other man, stumbling backwards as Klaus lashed massive claws out in a swing, snow crushed under the force as its torn neck quivered and a rattling weak roar whined out from its flagging lungs.

It just barely missed them, Maxwell only struggling for a moment in his grip as they both fell back into the snow, but the sound, the sudden thrashing rage, the last of the monsters strength made the older man go still in his grip. Wilson had fallen backwards, cold biting snow seeping through the numbness, the aches rising from the rapid movement that strained his lungs even farther than he should have risked, and Maxwell leaned against him as Klaus flailed, back pressed to his shoulder as he pulled his legs up tight, knees pressed together.

They both watched, frozen and enamored, as the monster got caught up in its death throes, choking and seizing up, twitching as it gushed more blood from its mouth, strings threatening to come undone from its face as its head shook and trembled under its own weight.

_Vidi te et scies tuus terminos._

Its head rose, throat dragging blood and lost fur on the snow underneath it, and it seemed to look upon them, straight at them for a moment.

_Scio quid adoremus, et quid diligitis._

It gargled, a gush of draining blood and spit and oils from its lips, straining almost beseechingly at them, butcher claws curling slow and deep into the snow.

_Et ego malediceret tibi tu, donec in fine tu dierum._

With a last heave, jaws straining slack against the threads of its face, Klaus shuddered one last time, a last heave of its monstrous body.

And dropped dead with a heavy 'thump' in the snow.

The silence after held bated breath, waiting, watching. Any moment now, seconds passing as the pounding in Wilson's head increased near tenfold, any moment and he expected to see another trick up the monsters nonexistent sleeves, another amulet, or even something else that would pull the creature back to its feet, wounds healed and anger revitalized.

But nothing happened. Nothing but the chill in the air, and the sudden slow specks and blips of a new snowfall.

Snowflakes danced by his head, blinking dizzily with Maxwell's weight still pressed against him, both of them breathing heavy, and the complex ice designs were blurry and moving too quick for him to see, snow catching in his hair and sodden clothes.

If he didn't bleed out first, the cold would take him instead.

Then the other man was moving, pushing up and giving Wilson space, and fog plumed up from his mouth with every rattling breath. Wilson squinted his eye as his balance tried to adjust, the stinging, poking pain in his chest starting to pierce through the numbing fog. Neither said a word, still trying to catch their breath, finally a moment of silence in the cold clearing.

It wouldn't be night for a good bit still, Wilson realized as he looked up to the gray sky, then eyed the strewn about corpses of Krampi, torn apart sacks scattered through the snow. Glints of gold and lumps of charcoal, a few odder shaped items here or there, but the snowfall was starting to coat it all in a fine powder of ice.

Maxwell made a sound, as if clearing his throat, but when Wilson turned his gaze to him the old man had his eyes squeezed shut, face curved into a grimace as he quieted. One of his hands was still pressed to his neck, the dark crimson spread in blotches through his suit, and now that Wilson could see it looked as if the injury had dug deep and dragged far deeper, shivers he could see in the others shoulders, and he pulled his own arms about his chest, the cold nipping across his skin and the wet damper of his messy clothes.

There wasn't really much to be said at this point, and Wilson averted his gaze, once more sweeping about the bloody battlefield, snowfall blanketing down as the clouds overhead grew thicker. Even Klaus's corpse was starting to turn white, ice and snowflakes burying the great monster.

An odd burial, and not one Wilson liked personally. Experience rose like a bubble in his skull, a bad memory that left his ears ringing dull and loud, but even that was starting to slip away.

He still had a grip, but it wouldn't be for much longer.

And, judging from the shifting shades out by the untouched birchtrees, bleach white eyes, transparent stalks and leggy limbs, anymore blue caps would leave him open to the mercy of the lingering Them that watched the two men.

"That...could have gone better."

Wilson unsteadily looked back to the older man, legs folded under him and hunching a bit forward, his hand still to his neck and doing near nothing else. His voice had come out slow, strained, but Maxwell only had a minor grimace on his face, as if this was all just an inconvenience for him.

Wilson gave him a slow, slightly dizzy nod, tongue thick and heavy in his mouth with his words mixing bad in his brain, but he was able to spit out a snipped word.

"Y-yeah." Another odd wobble to his balance made him shake his head side to side, closing his eye for a moment as his vision went sickeningly smeared. "Y, yes-s."

Anything else was a bit too out of his reach to try and articulate, especially since there was sudden blood spotting to the snow under him and down his shirt, slowly raising a hand and lightly pressing his palm to the numbing side of his face. 

He couldn't actually feel anything, just a brief burst of pins and needles, bubbled discomforting pressure, but the bandaging was soaked through and more blood was streaming down his cheek, his chin, blinking dizzily, lethargic as his wavering vision smeared a bit red at the edges.

It took a second to recognize that he was bleeding from that side too, and then his breath got huffed and he had to whistle in air through his mouth, an automatic movement to wipe his nose that left more blood across his wrist. Wilson stared, vaguely knowing what was happening and what _would_ end up happening, he's done this too many times to not know, but that did not leave him with any sense of comfort.

Neither any fear or panic, but that might just be the shock. Head injuries didn't really go well with him.

"You...you're looking worse." 

Wilson blinked, squinted at the twisting red tinged effect his eye was showing him, before turning his gaze to see Maxwell giving him a narrow eyed look. There was a drag to his face, that masking of pain that, at this point, Wilson could usually identify, and the older man scooted over to peer at him a little closer.

It was almost enough for Wilson to lean back, but his balance was crumbling and even the sense of moving was becoming a little hard to grasp. There was an icy burn to the pounding ache of his skull, draining slow and thick, so all he did was close his eye and breath, not quite focusing anymore but still aware.

Mostly aware, anyway. It was getting harder to think, and things were getting further and further away.

"...Don't think I...have anything left to...to help."

There was movement, brief fluttered touch to his head that he already knew was just Maxwell's prodding, the old man's breath faint and far more wheezed than usual. He seemed to be straining to speak, having a hard time even just near whispering the words out, but when Wilson forced open his eye his gaze stared out across the mucked up snow and even the ever heard Knowledge had fallen silent.

What was going on again? His head felt funny, heavy and stuffed and yet leaking everywhere, his limbs full of lead and the air seeming more red, darker than what he was used to, and Maxwell leaned back a moment to cough to the side, a horrid wet sound that the old man seemed to have trouble with for a few moments before finally quieting. 

It was getting harder, sitting up like this, and he was flashed with the dizzy impulse to lay down and press his face into the snow. It looked soft, powdery now as more snowflakes continued to fall, comfortable even.

Oh, wait a minute.

Maxwell was coughing again, the sound worse than before, and he could see crimson in the snow that wasn't from him, too dark and oily to be from him, and it took another few slow moments to realize the full gravity of the situation.

 _I'm dying_ , he realized, and Wilson stuttered a sigh at the thought. It wasn't as terrible to acknowledge as it had been earlier.

Maybe because the fight was over, the monster dead, defeated. Was it still a win if the victors succumbed to their wounds just after the finishing blow?

He couldn't even remember if he had an effigy back at camp. Probably? Maybe? His mind was a mess right now, scrambled low and drained as it all leaked out of him, and good god did he want to lie down.

His gaze drifted over the snow, the white flecked corpses of red fur and ripped open sacks, ice coating the clearing and erasing the evidence of what had just happened. Dark lumps of coal, the glitter of gold nuggets, rocks and thick logs, scattered rusting gears and already soaked soft papyrus papers, an assortment of stolen objects and artifacts that had spilled from the pillagers loot, an odd sight to see with the carnage and death all around.

Wilson could feel the rising, spreading feeling in his limbs, or lack of feeling really, numb and sliding as blood leaked from his nose and good eye, seeped in thick streams down from where it had soaked through the bandaging of his right eye, and he wobbled, weight shifting to try and drag him down, let him lay out, curl up with the cold snow.

And then something glittered, caught his eye and smearing swirled vision, dizzy and nauseous as his brain tried to piece a word, a name to it as it started to shut down.

There was the taste of blood, wet iron in his mouth and coating his dry tongue as Wilson swallowed thickly, and he was so very tired and near empty now but he still raised a shaking hand, pointed a dipping claw and rose his stuttered voice into the words he could get out.

"There'ss, sss…" The sound dragged, pulled the air from his lungs and made the pinch spike into a stab before numbness lapped back and coated it away, only the faintest twitches to his face as the other man beside him stilled, listening. A shake of his head broke the hissing from him, as well as swung his bruised brain around and around in a painful thunderclap only he could hear, and as he wobbled and fought to keep sitting Wilson spat out the last word he could articulate in his skull. 

"Am, am-mulet-tt…"

It was a little much, a gag in his throat along with a sudden throb to the deep of his skull, a tug and split of electric pain, and with that Wilson shuddered before falling face down into the snow.

He couldn't see anything, only cold ice and the red sweep his vision was taking on, and he was shivering, shaking but even that was far, far away, slowing down with each heaving breath. The vibrations of the earth were faint, heavy and tipped, but if he had been more aware he could have sworn there were words spoken above him, an exclamation and gargled coughing, the briefest light touch to his back before even that drew away.

The snow wasn't as soft as it had looked, biting into the skin of his face and chilling him even further, but the act of laying down, everything shifting horizontal, was immensely relieving in a way his sagging brain couldn't quite understand right now.

It felt like the most comfortable place in the whole world, and Wilson closed his eye and sighed.

It took a long, roughened moment to take another breath. The struggle in his chest was a dark wave, numbing as the static behind his eyelid blazed faint reds, rivers of blues and then fading, quickly, to surrounding grays, rising up high and encircling, surrounding and cradling in a drift outwards-

-before there was a sudden clawed grip in his hair, a tug backwards that shot red shocks through the last of his fading consciousness.

"Not...so f...so fast, pal."

The pull dug up a leaking sideways memory, near dreamlike, a faded hint of phantom cigar smoke, and he tensed up as a sudden surge of _don't touch me_ rushed through him in a final tremor. 

And then there was the bite of ice cold metal, smooth and chill as it slipped about his neck, a heavy weight thumped down to slide against his chest, rest in the snow, unwanted hands leaving him, and just like that the filmy buzz of magic coated his tongue and Wilson could breathe again.

The sideways balance tipped right back into normality, sucked from the brink and shoved into place once more, and he gasped a deep gulp of air and shoved himself to his knees, blinking open his eye to the smearing haze that was already starting to deteriorate from his vision. The pain in his chest, that digging sharp prod, it eased up after a few inhales, exhales, that pressure of his insides being moved, pulling back together as his ribs cracked back into their correct positions. The ache of the bruises the Krampi had left behind were already far in the past, the lead in his limbs seeping away only to fill with magic enhanced exhaustion.

He could sleep that off. Wilson knew that pretty well, and he glanced down to have a look at the red gem that now laid against his chest. The inset of the amulet glowed, pulsed warmly and seeped comfortingly right down to the deep of his skin, down to coat his bones in waves, and the beat of it matched his own heartbeat as his body repaired itself.

A brief touch to his head had him wince, palm gritty and claws stained with his own blood, and that spark of numbing static told him that it would take far longer healing his head wound, but he wasn't bleeding out anymore. That awful sliding, sagging inside his skull had let up, headache gone, and whatever damage in there was easing up as the magic repaired him.

The science of this still escaped his grasp, but everytime he came into contact with it the feeling of another puzzle piece filling in its slot came over him and it was a slow build up, but Wilson was sure he'd get there eventually.

Now that he could see, feel, _think_ again, taking a deep, calming breath and noting the cold feeling of snowflakes layered in his hair, Wilson found himself eyeing the other man in front of him.

Maxwell was on his knees, watching him, hand still to his neck and now there was definite evidence of blood gunked up from the area, staining right down his suit, down the bit of winter clothing he still had left, breathing heavy, but catching his gaze Wilson could almost swear there was relief in those pitch black eyes.

"Only, only one of th, them?" The stuttering still clung to him, tongue heavy and words a bit scrambled.

After all, he couldn't just expect a life giving amulet to heal him completely. His eye wasn't coming back anytime soon, and he supposed the mild brain damage was a given.

The amulet beat warm to his chest, chased the fog of his recent injuries and stitched the rest of him back together with only a few holes left in place, and even as the snowfall let up above them and the icy cold chain numbed his neck a bit, at the very least he was still alive.

Maxwell, however, was not looking so good.

"That...was the only...only one I...could find…" The other man had to take deep breaths in between few words, rasping in thin whispers, and Wilson had already scooted a bit forward, using his newfound strength to try and get a clear look at those neck injuries.

Which Maxwell very unsubtly turned and leaned away from, his face falling into only taking those shallow breaths, almost a scowl save for the feeling it usually had backing it.

"I...will be...fine. You...need it more…" 

For all his words Maxwell was not convincing in the slightest. But Wilson did have to pause for that; he had been at death's door, one foot across the threshold before the amulet had gotten to work, and these sorts of wounds did not heal instantly, even with this "magic" of giving life. Handing off the amulet would weaken its work, as well as allow him to become incapacitated once more.

The conundrum here was still a bit hard to grasp for the moment; blood and memory didn't leak from his skull anymore, but the faint fog of confusion still clung like cobwebs all throughout the space. Recognizing the new changes to the situation was going to take him a moment.

A moment that Maxwell did not seem to have.

"Are you s-sssure?" Dragging the sound made something in his skull pinch, making Wilson shake his head to get the word through. "You really don't lo-look s, sso good."

The irony of what he had just said didn't set in for a few good seconds, all that blood and how pale the other man was actually stirring a bit of concern in his chest, but the moment it did Maxwell huffed a sound that might have been a snort, hunching forward a bit more as he hissed out a breath between tightly clenched teeth.

"Don't...worry yourself...pal...I'm...fit as a….fiddle."

And just like that down Maxwell went, falling face first into the snow.

Moving was still a bit of a struggle for a moment, sense of balance circling around and around as he went light headed, but Wilson powered through it as he got the older man's side, his blood gritty claws hovering over his back. The brief acknowledgment of just how wrecked Maxwell was, suit torn up from the beating and clawing of imp hooves and talons, the jagged strain caused by the one landed hit by the fallen Klaus, and then the sudden darkening crimson of the surrounding snow really started to set in that, even with the amulet, they haven't actually gotten out of this just yet.

Well, he has. Wilson wasn't bleeding out anymore, but Maxwell sure was.

He needed to see the wound, see the damage, and gritting his teeth, steeling himself as he shoved the gravity of it all out of his mind, now was not the time to flounder he had to do _something_ , Wilson carefully tried to lift the other man up, turn him to the side.

Whether it was a good thing or not that Maxwell didn't object wasn't telling enough, and the worry fraying the edges of his mind was creeping in with more determination now. Not even a hint of a struggle as Wilson got him to his back, just a low gurgle as his bloody hands rose, trembling, before seeming to give up and fall back to the snow. 

Actually seeing the wound was somehow worse than not; Klaus had sheared his shoulder, dragged down against his throat and caught against bones, and the sudden realization that Maxwell had been whispering because his throat was near half torn out was a bit sudden and viscerally nauseating.

Swallowing hard, his own throat dry with warm magic and tongue heavy in his mouth, Wilson couldn't do much but briefly hover his claws over the flayed open wound. Every breath had more blood bubbling up, and close enough now he could hear that wet rattling gurgle, exposed flesh and tendons doing nothing to ease the knotting twist of his gut, and Wilson knew he himself must not have been a pretty sight but this was nearly just as bad.

A bit more to the left and Maxwell might have just been decapitated. 

"A fiddle with itss, s-stringss cut." Wilson said, and a frown tugged at his face, trying to work his lethargic brain into order. The magic exhaustion was going to do a number on him later, he could already tell.

His words seemed to have an effect, a little bit startled as Maxwell's face twitched into a strained half smile, his dark eyes squinting open a moment before closing once more, but whatever he had to say came out as gargled coughs, more blood bubbling from his throat and coating his clothing in another layer of dark red. That quickly became a hacking fit, Wilson freezing before hurriedly trying to sit the other man up a bit, to help lessen the strain as those coughs turned into gags that finally rattled into quiet.

Shallow, and fast, the sounds of his breathing wet and struggling, and Wilson kept the older man up for a moment longer before easing him back down. 

There definitely wasn't anything he could do at this point, bandaging wasn't going to heal a punctured throat nor drain the lungs, and if it kept going this way Maxwell was going to drown in his own blood. 

Leaning over the dying man, face drawn low and only the hint of whooziness still gracing him, there was the shifting of weight and the drag of the chain about his neck as the Life Amulet swung in the air, gem pulsing red steady and continuous.

Wilson stared at it, blinked, and had a sudden thought.

It might not work.

But it was the least, and only thing, he could do.

"Hold on juss, s-ss...a moment, Maxwell." He didn't know if the old man was paying him any attention, couldn't tell if he even could, and the Knowledge in his head was quiet, slowed by the magic and the near death experience, so all Wilson had to work with was what he had at hand.

And what he had was the amulet.

Moving Maxwell wasn't the best way to go about this but it was the only way Wilson could see, his claws careful as he once more got the older man to sit up, listening to the shifting gargle and seeping of blood to snow, the lack of response to his actions sending a jitter of panic through his chest. Stiffening his jaw, holding to his determination and not letting himself think of anything else, he freed one clawed hand from holding the other man up and grabbed the chain about his neck.

The cold gold stung, still biting to his skin, and he stretched it out as far as he could, shifting Maxwells weight to lean heavy against him, head limp at his shoulder and oozing blood to his already stained vest. It wasn't a large chain by far, a tight fit, but even as those breathes got gurgled and choked Wilson focused.

Slipping it around the other man's neck, pressed closer together than he was really truly comfortable with, the amulet itself thumped against his chest before sliding, settling between the two of them. The warmth of it seemed to fade, a shiver in his arms and goosebumps over his skin, and even the rhythm of its pulsing had changed. 

Instead of a steady singular beat, there seemed to be an overlay, irregular. The gem glowed as it pulsed twice in succession, a double heartbeat fluttering along as both seemed to steady together.

He waited a few more seconds, just in case the gem cracked, the magic pour out in that usual flash that would leave him disoriented and sleepy, but no revival occurred. It was just him, Maxwell, and the Life Amulet shared between them.

Another moment passed, the snow covered clearing only interrupted by breathing, the slow steamed warm fog of their breath, and then Maxwell shifted.

The tug of the chain wobbled Wilsons balance, but he was as comfortable as he could be, sitting in the snow like this. 

"Care, careful, don't want it to break."

Maxwell hummed roughly at him, though Wilson found it difficult to look at him since they were sort of stuck together at the moment. The coughing came up after that, gargling and raw as the magic started its healing, and all he could do was sit there and look elsewhere as the older man sagged against him afterwards, gasping for breath but not nearly as strained or choked as earlier.

Evening was darkening out now, and it would be night soon. Not enough to worry Wilson just yet, but the instant the both of them could walk straight they'd need to get going.

That, or attempt to scavenge anything scattered about to build a fire with. But that would be later, when the amulet had mostly depleted itself. 

"How...did you know this would...work?" Maxwell's voice was still whispered, quiet now without the choking and blood.

"I didn't." Wilson closed his eyes, shivered as the full feeling of his sodden messy clothes settled, snow in his hair and head only vaguely aching now, a background bruise that would take rest to heal away. "It was a gues-sss-"

The stutter was easing up, but the hissing was taking longer. He had to shake his head, mouth curling as he finally cut himself off, and the dull pain stabbing his brain let up as he quieted. 

Out in the thick powder snow, only the barest hint of furry red showed where Klaus had fallen. That horrid thing had near succeeded in killing him, killing them both, and Wilson hoped that, later on, they'd find a reward for all that trouble.

If not, at least the kids were safe. And he's learned a valuable lesson about sticking key shaped objects into random suspicious locks.

With who he was sitting with right now, Wilson would have thought he'd have learned all about that by now. The irony of it was not lost on him.

At least Maxwell wasn't freezing cold. Wilson didn't find his weight to be too much of a bother, at least for now.

There was a few more minutes of silence, a reprieve for the first time since this had all started, and Wilson's mind was blank and fringing with that magic static that soothed and healed the damage done before, at ease as he waited out the time.

And then Maxwell cleared his throat, still whisper thin but growing a bit more steady, confident as his throat didn't try to rip itself apart as he spoke.

"Would you, perhaps...be a bit mad if I said…I told you so?"

There was an upturn to his voice, his pitch, and Wilson leaned ever so slightly away, as much as the chain would permit as he looked eye to eye with the other man, that pitch black less dull now, reflective and shiny.

"That'ss, ss- the first-st thing you ss, say to me? Not even a, a thank you?" He watched as something like a mix of a smirk and a grimace broke across the old man's face, a rattling wheeze that whistled for a moment as Wilson finally just shook his head, a tug to his own lips as he looked away in mock disappointment. "I, I can't believe y-you."

"You...didn't answer the...question." Maxwell bared his teeth in a grin, and the amulet between them pulsed steady, quick and fast with parallel heartbeats. "And I did...tell you so."

Wilson shook his head again, all too close to the other man and having to stop so they didn't hit each other, but the tug on his face wasn't something he could quite ignore. 

Maxwell could be a paranoid, even somewhat delusional old man, but he _had_ told Wilson that something was up about that giant sack and maybe he shouldn't be sticking deer antlers into random keyholes. And Wilson had flat out ignored him, brushed him off.

And now look at the mess they had gotten into.

Again, Wilson was quite glad Webber and Wendy had gotten away well before it had gotten bad. He already knew he was going to have to answer to Wickerbottoms scoldings, so at least he hadn't knowingly endangered the kids.

And, Maxwell and him were still alive too. A bonus he had sort of started losing hope in earlier.

As Wilson has learned time and time again, surviving near death experiences certainly gave a different feeling to the air, a general change.

A particular incident with a Varg and its pack rose up like a frothy bubble of memory, smoothed over in the aftermath, and he may not fully remember just how terrifying it was hiding away in the cracks of a canyon as those teeth had gnashed and claws had pawed at his hiding space but Wilson certainly remembered the hours later, when the hounds had grown bored and wandered off, when he had scrambled, fallen out of the protective rock into a near sobbing mess across the pebble strewn ground.

His sobs had turned into giggles, cackling as the reality of getting away from certain death became hilarious, and even now there was a level of tickling to his chest, his lungs as he vainly tried to fight off his own grin, the overpower of near hysterical flooding emotion.

Maxwell was still looking at him, waiting for that answer, and finally Wilson had to turn his head and speak, fight the stammer as the utter panicked relief started to overflow. 

"I, I sss, s-still can't believe y-you." That grin leveled at him seemed just as borderline hysterical as he felt, jagged barred sharp teeth and shiny black eyes, the glimpse of the former wound stitching itself together, scabbing over, and Wilson shook his head as finally the first coughing laugh fell from his lips. "I h-hate y-you, and h-how you're ri, right."

That just opened the floodgates and Wilson wheezed as he giggled, the flush of magic heat from the amulet in his veins and the Knowledge of Klaus's corpse hidden under the snow, and after a moment the ragged dry hisses from Maxwell joined him, not quite cackling but almost close enough. The other man leaned against him, almost toppled Wilson before he stabilized by also leaning forward, and the gold chain was cold and bitey as it went a bit looser at the change in their positions. 

Maxwell's head was pressed to his shoulder, huffing giggles as Wilson laughed, and good god did his head hurt and his vision was halved and he'd hate this later, he'll wake up with half his sight gone and he'd ache and _hurt_ but right now he was alive and Maxwell was alive and they had _won_.

Their laughter died down a bit later, breathing heavy as both men caught their breath, and Wilson had his hands curled in his lap, absolutely sodden with cold snow and the other man leaning near completely against him, face still turned away, and all he could think of was how _lucky_ he was right now.

After a few more moments, calmed and released from the lagged hysteria, Wilson blinked out at the white snow, covering the dark patches of blood and mud now, and turned his gaze to try and see the other man a bit better.

"It's-s, sss- you're not bleeding any, anymore, right?"

His words made Maxwell move, shift back from him and raise his head, and now Wilson could see how the amulet went about its business, the drying scabbing and pull and taunt of new skin, peeling bad flesh and turning into pale scar tissues. 

"I'm better than I...was." 

Then Maxwell leaned forward again, dark pitch black eyes intense as he peered at Wilson, raised up slightly trembling hands to his head. 

"How about...you?"

Wilson gently batted those gloved hands away, only lightly dragging his claws down the blood soaked bandaging of his head, but he wasn't willing to pull it all off just yet. His voice still had a level of lightness to it, still a light tug to his lips as he spoke.

"Fine. Never been better, actually."

"Good. I'm...glad you're alright."

There was a pause after that, a moment of thought, and the words seemed to have come out of nowhere.

Maxwell himself seemed to realize the sudden awkwardness, the amulets gold chain keeping them from pulling away far enough, and his dark eyes looked away as Wilson fiddled his claws together, a scraping motion that kept him anchored from the random jitter in his chest.

"I mean...I'm happy you...are not dead."

"That'ss-s…" Wilson grit his teeth, bit off the stutter before taking another breath. He could say any number of things, right now. "That'ss, s-s'not any better. But…"

But they've won, they've survived, and Wilson knew with the certainty of Knowledge that he wouldn't have gotten out of this fight alive without the other man's help and his, if a bit rough and unpracticed, encouragement.

"I'm glad that y-you are s-ssstill alive too." He heaved a sigh, averted his gaze to the beating amulet, its pulsing warm red light. "Even though y-you are frus-ss-stratingly right, I'm glad y-you were here."

A spot of silence, a moment as Wilson traced the inset cuts of the red gem with his eyes, before a sudden coughed laugh from Maxwell snapped his attention back.

The grin on the old man's face was amused, and he even raised a hand as if to be polite, to cover his mouth as he huffed, before he raised his head and stared at eye level at Wilson, the chain of the amulet having closed the usual distance drastically.

"You were the...one to get hit first, pal. Of course you would be...glad, I was here. You would be dead...otherwise."

"Hey, y-you almost loss-st your head." Wilson lightly pushed against the other man's shoulder, his own laugh falling from him, the rise of amusement and almost cheer in Maxwell's voice for once not coming off as snarky or antagonizing. "And I dragged y-you away from thos-sse clawss, sss-since y-you weren't paying any attention."

"I was a bit...distracted." Maxwell grinned more fully at him, that tense awkwardness dissipating as the air lightened up, and a sudden thought came to him that seemed to have brought back the laughter, his shoulders shaking as he got the words out to answer Wilsons curious looks. "So terribly distracted in fact...it is hard to pay attention when one's acquaintance seems to just...drop dead like that."

"Acquaintance? That'ss-s what I a, am to y-you?" His tone was in jesting, easy to pick up on as his own face split with a small smile, shaking his head. "And I wass-sn't dead, juss, ss-"

"Just a bit...empty headed?" Maxwell interrupted, a light tease in his voice as he suddenly leaned forward enough to near be touching foreheads with Wilson, eye to eye, watching each other as their laughs mixed for a moment. "You were leaking you're...brain from your skull, Wilson, that was at least nearly dead."

"Y-your head could h-have beebeen removed." Wilson countered, still smiling, still alright with this and whatever it was. "And y-your throat and neck to boot. I wouldn't have had to, to hear your nagging voice any longer."

"Oh, you would have...missed it, pal, I'm sure." Maxwell's grin was less barred teeth now, less of that restraint as it turned more genuine than Wilson has ever really seen in, his breath finally stabilizing somewhat. "I know how…how much you love listening to me talk."

That made Wilson suddenly laugh. He didn't know why, only the faint fringes of something long ago tickling his memory, Knowledge quiet and sullen even as whatever lighter feelings he didn't know he could even have fluttered in his chest. He hadn't noticed the gloved hands that had moved, that had stabilized from the snow to his knees and then to his own hands, overlaying his claws without nary a thought; it was only dark shining eyes and the slow wheeze of a voice he's been listening to for such a very, very long time, too long for his continuous cycle of death and life to ever fully remember again.

The laughing left him taking steady gulps of air, letting his head fall forward to lean against Maxwell's, leveled gazes as the snow in his hair drifted a few snowflakes, melted a bit as he shivered from the unhindered cold. Those dark eyes were watching him intently, softened and somehow patient, waiting for an answer perhaps, and when Wilson breathed steamed clouds rose from his mouth, mixing near perfectly with the other man's foggy breath.

It was far more intimate than he had intended, foreheads pressed together and having his hands be held, clasped without asking anything more from him, and Maxwell still smiled, softer now, as if finding him to be the only thing he wished to look upon.

It was an odd, unbidden thought, and after a few moments Wilson looked away, snapping the thread as he untangled his claws from the other man's gentle grip.

The light was getting harder to see by, darker, and the clearing had its covering amount of snow now, only the faint outlines of frozen corpse limbs and left behind stolen treasure.

And the both of them, Wilson thought to himself.

"..We should get back to ca-camp." He rose his voice, phased through the stutter and acutely feeling the cold chain of the amulet dig to his neck. "It'll be dark soon."

He didn't look as, after another silent moment, Maxwell drew away, leaned back as far as the amulet would let of him, intent on the snow, but before any other words could be said, anything done to get started, a sudden noise broke the both of them from their inner thoughts.

Raising his gaze over through the snow, the white hulking hill that was Klaus, and then beyond to the still standing trees ahead, both men watched as a pile of snow shivered, crunched and piled, and then was suddenly flung upwards as a creature shot up in a leaping bound. 

It skidded to a halt, dainty hooves pacing the snow as it swung its head this way and that, ears swerving all about, the snow caked about its back falling off in thick, blood encrusted chunks. The fur of its head was matted, damp with ice and tangled with even more blood, the red gem inset to its flesh dull and cracked through the middle as if from a blow to the head, and it wobbled on its thin legs, swayed dizzily.

It seemed almost confused, bewildered at the silence as it honked and called a few times, wobbling into fades of sound.

And then there was a shiver through the air, made Wilson's hair stand on end and the amulets heartbeat to stutter as static sizzling magic flooded the air in streams, but instead of the gem glowing red hot or lava pools to appear at their feet-

-instead there was a resounding "click!", and a much louder " _ **crack!",**_ right before the harness straps of metal clasped to the deer suddenly started to crumble and fall apart from it. The snow cushioned, muted the sound somewhat, metal and leather and straps crashing down upon each other, and the creature shivered, called again in soft confusion.

Just before the red gem atop its head flashed, cracked with a shatter of sound, and fell in halves from its scarred face.

The gaping hole was pale, dry flesh and no blood from the absence, and just like that the No Eyed Deer stood straight up, stock still, before with a last honk of a call leaped forward.

They didn't have enough to time to react, just watch with stricken faces as the deer bounded past them, hopping into a quick trott as it fled to the trees.

A brief moment later, and all the clearing had was Wilson and Maxwell. The hoofprints in the snow would be gone by tomorrow morning.

Wilson turned his head, blinked as Maxwell did the same, looking to each other for a moment, a beat of silence, the amulet warmly settled between them.

And then he started to laugh, louder than before, more obnoxious, perhaps even more hysterical, and not even a second had passed by before Maxwell joined him.

A new snowfall started to descend, snowflakes scattering over the two men, and the shared amulet beat onwards, soothing and calm and ever so warm, going on strong for as long as it needed to.


End file.
